The Spanish Element in Our Nationality”: Spain and America at the World’s Fairs and Centennial Celebrations, 1876–1915 9780271085265

Citation preview

“The Spanish Element in Our Nationality”

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“The Spanish Element in Our Nationality” Spain and America at the World’s Fairs and Centennial Celebrations, 1876–1915

m. e l iz a b e t h b o on e

the pennsylvania state university press   University Park, Pennsylvania

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Publication of this book has been aided by a grant from the Wyeth Foundation for American Art Publication Fund of CAA. Unless otherwise noted, photos appear courtesy of the author. Portions of chapter 1 appeared previously in “‘Civil Dissension, Bad Government, and Religious Intolerance’: Spanish Display at the Philadelphia Centennial and in Gilded Age Private Collections,” in Collecting Spanish Art: Spain’s Golden Age and America’s Gilded Age, edited by Inge Reist and José Luis Colomer (New York: Frick Collection; Madrid: Centro de Estudios Europa Hispánica and Center for Spain in America, 2012), 42–63; portions of chapter 3 appeared previously in “Marginalizing Spain at the Chicago Columbian Exposition of 1893,” in “Centering the Margins of Nineteenth-Century Art,” edited by M. Elizabeth Boone and Joan Greer, special issue, Nineteenth Century Studies 25 (2011): 199–220; and portions of chapter 4 appeared previously in “‘A Renewal of the Fraternal Relations That Shared Blood and History Demand’: Latin American Painting, Spanish Exhibitions, and Public Display at the 1910 Independence Celebrations in Argentina, Chile, and Mexico,” Revue d’Art Canadienne / Canadian Art Review 38, no. 2 (2013): 90–108. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Boone, Mary Elizabeth, author. Title: “The Spanish element in our nationality” : Spain and America at the world's fairs and centennial celebrations, 1876–1915 / M. Elizabeth Boone. Description: University Park, Pennsylvania : The Pennsylvania State University Press, [2019] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Summary: “Uses Spanish participation at a series of international exhibitions to explore the transnational histories of Spain, the United States, Europe, and America in order to understand how and why the Spanishness of U.S. national identity has been subverted, marginalized, and largely forgotten”—Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2019024581 | ISBN 9780271083315 (cloth) Subjects: LCSH: Exhibitions—History. | Art, Spanish—19th century—Exhibitions. | Art, Spanish— 20th century—Exhibitions. | United States—Civilization—Spanish influences. Classification: LCC E169.1.B745 2019 | DDC 907.4—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019024581 Copyright © 2019 M. Elizabeth Boone All rights reserved Printed in China Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802–1003 The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of University Presses. It is the policy of The Pennsylvania State University Press to use acid-free paper. Publications on uncoated stock satisfy the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Material, ansi Z39.48–1992.

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For Eleanor Frances and Philippa Jane, that they too may recognize the Spanish element in our nationality

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conte n t s



List of Illustrations

ix

Acknowledgments xiii

Introduction 1

1  Inventing America at the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial

15



2  Defining (and Defending) Spain in Barcelona and Paris, 1888 and 1889

49

3  Marginalizing Spain (and Embracing Cuba) at the 1893 Columbian Exposition

87



4  Reasserting Spain in America at the 1910 Centennial Exhibitions

121

5 Using Spain to Ignore Mexicans at the 1915 California Fairs

155

Notes 193

Bibliography 205

Index 223

vii

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i llu str ati o n s

Plates ( following page 120)

19. Panama California Exposition (International), San Diego Cal. 1915, ca. 1910

1.

Dióscoro Puebla, Primer desembarco de Colón, 1862

2.

Antonio Gisbert, El desembarco de los puritanos en América, 1863

3.

Robert Weir, Embarkation of the Pilgrims, 1837–43

1.

4.

Lorenzo Vallés, La demencia de doña Juana de Castilla, 1866

Centennial Photographic Company, Memorial Hall—Spain, 1876  16

2.

5.

Luis Jiménez Aranda, Lady at the Paris Exposition, 1889

Centennial Photographic Company, Vista del pabellón de bellas artes, 1876 17

3.

España a Filadelfia, 1876  20

6.

Joan Planella i Rodríguez, La nena obrera, 1882

4.

7.

Antonio Gisbert, Fusilamiento de Torrijos y sus compañeros en las playas de Málaga, 1887–88

Centennial Photographic Company, Vista del pabellón de la industria, 1876  24

5.

Spanish Pavilion, 1877  24

8.

José Casado del Alisal, La leyenda del Rey Monje (La campana de Huesca), 1880

6.

Main Building—Spanish Court, 1876  25

7.

Main Exhibition Building, 1876  26

9.

Luis Jiménez Aranda, Una sala del hospital durante la visita del médico en jefe, 1889

8.

Centennial Photographic Company, Main Building—Spain, 1876  29

10. José Garnelo, Primer homenaje a Cristóbal Colón, 1892

9.

Centennial Photographic Company, Vista de la portada del arco de España, 1876  31

11. Armando García Menocal, Embarque de Colón por Bobadilla, 1893

10. Plano general de la Exposición Universal de Filadelfia, 1876  33

12. Joaquín Sorolla, ¡Otra Margarita!, 1892

11. Centennial Photographic Company, Vista del parque ferial con los tres edificios construidos por España, 1876 35

13. El reencuentro de Argentina y España, ca. 1910 14. Ignacio Zuloaga, Vuelta de la vendimia, 1906 15. Eduardo Chicharro, El Ángelus, 1907 16. Joaquín Sorolla, Remendando las redes, 1901

20. Foreign and Domestic Arts Building, 1914

Figures

12. Centennial Photographic Company, Spanish Government Building—Interior, 1876  36

17. Randal W. Borough, Portolá Festival, 1909

13. Quarters of the Spanish Corps of Engineers, 1877 37

18. Official Souvenir Folder No. 11, Panama-Pacific International Exposition, ca. 1915

14. Centennial Photographic Company, Art Annex— Spanish Paintings, 1876  38

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15. Walter F. Brown, Our Artist’s Dream of the Centennial Restaurants, 1876  44

37. José Tapiró, A Moorish Bridegroom, 1893 100

16. Exposición Internacional de Filadelfia, 1876  47

38. Spanish Section, 1893  101

17. Plano general, 1888  53

39. Moorish Arcade from Spain, 1893  103

18. Audouard y Ca., Arc de Triomf, 1888  54

40. Looking into the Viticultural Hall, 1893  104

19. Llegada á Barcelona de S. M. la Reina Regente, 1888 56

41. Tipo de guerrero marroquí, 1893  105

20. Aspecto general del Salón de Fiestas del Palacio de Bellas Artes, durante la ceremonia inaugural, 1888 57 21. El Excmo. Sr. Presidente del Consejo de Ministros, en nombre de S. M., declara abierto el concurso, 1888 58

43. An Arabian from Midway Plaisance, 1893  109 44. Convent of La Rabida, 1893  112 45. Interior Views of La Rabida, 1893  114 46. California Building, 1893  116 47. Liberty Bell in California Section, 1893  117

22. Visita de S. M. la Reina Regente al Real Monasterio de Montserrat, 1888  60

48. The Santa María and the Illinois mirrored in eyeglasses, 1893  120

23. Paul Audouard, Palau de Belles Arts: Secció espanyola de pintures, 1888  62

49. Julián García Núñez, Pabellones de España, 1911 126

24. Josep Lluís Pellicer, official poster for the 1888 Exposició Universal in Barcelona, 1886  63

50. En el Stadium, 1910  127

25. La Llufa del Ajuntament, 1888  68

51. Pabellón argentino en el centro de la Exposición, 1910 128

26. París—Estado actual de los trabajos para la construcción de la Torre Eiffel, 1887  71

52. Plano de la distribución definitiva de los locales, 1909 129

27. Pavilion of Spain, with Tourist Boat on the River Seine, Paris Exposition, 1889  73 28. The Pavilion of Spain, 1889  75 29. Interior del “Pabellón Español de Sustancias Alimenticias,” 1889  76 30. Una sala de la sección española en el Palacio de Bellas Artes, 1889  81

53. Sala Zuloaga, 1910  131 54. “Hermen Anglada—Valencia,” 1911  133 55. Antonio Coll y Pi, Don Alonso de Ercilla, 1910 136 56. Moustache, Monumentos ofensivos, 1910  137 57. Vista del Palacio de Bellas Artes, 1910  138

31. S. M. la Reina Regente visitando á los soldados enfermos instalados en el Hospital del Buen Suceso, 1889  83

58. First- and second-floor plans, 1910  139

32. Caravels at the Fair, 1893  88

60. Desfile histórico—Hernán Cortés y sus capitanes, 1911 145

33. The Spanish Building and Interior of Spanish Building, 1893  91 34. Sección de la mujer—Lado izquierdo, 1893  93 35. Agricultura—Vista exterior, 1893 94 36. Cuba—Agricultural Building, 1893  97

x

42. Interior of Moorish Palace, 1893  108

59. Desfile histórico—El Emperador Motecuhzoma, 1911 143

61. Méjico—Pabellón de la Exposición Española, 1910 146 62. Una vista de la galería oriental de la planta alta de la Exposición Española, 1911  147

illustr ations

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63. México y España, 1910  149

72. “San Diego Welcomes Park Founder,” 1915  178

64. José Guadalupe Posada, El centenario de la independencia de México en el año de 1910, 1910 151

73. 4418. “The Isthmus” Amusement Street, T. P. Getz famous Mission Play at right, ca. 1915  181

65. Joseph R. Collins, Meet Me in San Diego: There Is My Great-Grandpa, ca. 1915  156 66. Gaspar de Portolá (Nicolás Covarrubias) Receiving a Key to the City from Mayor Edward Robeson Taylor, 1909  160 67. The Marquis de la Vega-Inclán in San Francisco, 1913 162 68. Nations of the East, Court of the Universe, ca. 1915  167 69. Military High Mass in a Balboa Park Canyon, 1911 172 70. California Building, 1914  174 71. José Guadalupe Estudillo Is Exposition’s Honored Guest, 1915  177

74. The Liberty Bell, 1915  182 75. Liberty Bell in the Plaza de Panama, 1915  183 76. The Fantango at the San Diego Exposition, 1915 184 77. Joseph R. Collins, Meet Me in San Diego: Loretta Orozco, ca. 1915  185 78. Joseph R. Collins, Meet Me in San Diego: Man Seated with Pistol and Rifle, Woman Standing, ca. 1915  187 79. Ralph P. Stineman, Men and Mules Preparing Land Near the Administration Building, ca. 1915  190 80. Ralph P. Stineman, Transplanting a Palm Tree, ca. 1915  191

illustr ations

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ac k nowle d gm e n t s

The process of writing this book has been deeply collaborative, and I could not have completed it without the help of a large number of people living and working across Spain and America. As an art historian who has lived on both the east and west coasts of the United States, I realized early on that history was different depending upon where I was standing at any particular time. As my knowledge deepened through education and travel, I also began to understand how different it looked from inside and outside the United States, the country of my birth. The history I have written is, by necessity, my own, but I hope that the collaborative exchanges I acknowledge here will make it one that others may recognize as well. In Spain, I have had the pleasure of knowing and learning from Javier Barón, Juan Bejarano, José Luis Colomer, Antonio García Bascón, María Luisa Bellido, Marcela García Sebastiani, Rodrigo Gutiérrez Viñuales, Jesús Pedro Lorente, Lola Jiménez Blanco, Agustín Martínez Peláez, Javier Moreno, María Teresa (Maite) Paliza, Manuel Piñanes García-Olías, Blanca Pons-Sorolla, Amadeo Serra, Miguel Ángel Sorroche, Teresa Sala, Ignacio Suárez-­Zuloaga, Jesús Tejada, and Alonso Zamora Canellada, among others. I especially wish to recognize my late friend José Pedro (Josepe) Muñoz Herrera, who introduced me to the beauty of Toledo and collaborated with me on several early publications. I am sorry he did not live long enough to see this book. Scholars specializing in the Americas have likewise been generous in their sharing of advice. I wish to acknowledge in particular Fausto Ramírez, Jay Oles, and Mary Coffey for helping me navigate the rich art-historical resources of Mexico. I had the pleasure in Chile of conversing with Pedro Zamorano and collaborating with Soledad Novoa Donoso, who graciously invited me to curate an exhibition at Santiago’s Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes in 2014. Working with the museum staff on “Una cualidad lírica de un encanto duradero: La pintura norteamericana y chilena en el Centenario de Chile en 1910,” an exhibition that paired paintings purchased from the U.S. section of the Centenary Exposition with Chilean work from the same moment in history, was truly a pleasure. Roberto Amigo, María José Herrera, Laura Malosetti in Argentina, and Enrique Aguerre and Willy Rey in Uruguay were equally generous with their time and knowledge.

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My debt to scholars in the United States and Canada is likewise immense. Colleagues at the University of Alberta, especially Joan Greer, Steven Harris, Andrea Korda, and Lianne McTavish, encourage me to think harder and never fail to inspire by their example. Thanks also to Eugenia Afinoguénova, Mishoe Brennecke, Barbara Curiel, Scott Eastman, Sterling Evans, Jennifer Greenhill, David Hanson, Ray Hernández-Durán, Rebecca Houze, Susan Larkin, Valerie Leeds, Kathie Manthorne, Jenn Marshall, Kim Orcutt, Pamela Patton, David Raizman, Debbie Rindge, Gwen Robertson, Ethan Robey, Alena Robin, Mark Roglán, Margaret Samu, the late Christopher Schmidt-Nowara, Thayer Tolles, and Janis Tomlinson. Emily Burns provided excellent suggestions for research in Paris and read the entire manuscript before I submitted it for review. I am thankful also for having studied with Svetlana Alpers and Margaretta Lovell at the University of California, Berkeley, and with William Gerdts, Patricia Mainardi, Barbara Weinberg, and the late Linda Nochlin at the City University of New York. Each in his or her own way continues to serve as a model for my own scholarship and teaching. Students at the University of Alberta, especially those who took my seminar on world’s fairs, contributed immensely to this project. Their excellent work— from leading class discussions to imagining and undertaking their own research projects—reminded me continually of the value of integrating teaching into research. I also had the distinct pleasure of working closely with some excellent graduate students. Fran Cullen created a comprehensive time line of the period; Heather Caverhill worked through the bibliography on performance and masquerade; Luciana Erregue shared her cultural and linguistic knowledge of Argentina; and Laura Monerrís assisted with Catalan history and source material. I also had the pleasure of supervising several graduate students who wrote their theses on world’s fairs: Adam Whitford on children’s literature at the Columbian Exposition and Noelle Belanger on Ford and futurism at the Panama-Pacific International Exposition. Traveling with Noelle to the archives in California and co-authoring an article about aviation and photography in 1915 San Francisco left me with a ream of great memories. I must also recognize Banafsheh Mohammadi, who worked enthusiastically in the last phase of manuscript preparation on image permissions and fielded my queries about endnotes and documentation. Louise Asselstine, Don Cooper, and Aidan Rowe, likewise at the University of Alberta, helped me with last-minute technical issues related to the images. Some material in this book has been presented at conferences and guest lectures, where fellow panelists and the audience have helped me develop my ideas further. In particular, I wish to thank Inge Reist, Esmée Quodbach, and Samantha Deutsch for inviting me to the Center for the History of Collecting at the Frick Collection, and Cheryll May and Marian Wardle for including me in their symposium “Transnationalism and the Formation of American Culture” at Brigham Young University.

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acknowled gments

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Material related to this book was also presented at conferences sponsored by the Association for Spanish and Portuguese Historical Studies, the Latin American Studies Association, the Nineteenth Century Studies Association, the Universities Art Association of Canada, the National Museum of American History, the San Diego Museum of Art, the Telfair Museums, Brandon University (Canada), the University of Illinois at Urbana-­Champaign, the Universidad de Chile, the Universitat de València, and the Universidad de Salamanca (Spain). In 2015, I was lucky enough to participate in “The Alhambra and Spain’s Islamic Past,” a summer research institute funded by the National Endowment for the Humanities. The organizers of the seminar, D. Fairchild (Dede) Ruggles and Oscar Vázquez, assembled a fabulous group of scholars, all of them specialists in Islamic culture and its reinterpretation over time: Nabil Boudraa, Marimer Carrión, Anna Cruz, Mahan Ellison, Ann Huppert, Catherine Infante, Taharee Jackson, Marco Katz Montiel, Thomas Kealy, Marilyn Kralik, Matilde Mateo, Karen Mathews, Christine Olson, Dannie Otto, Deborah Pope, María del Mar Rosa-­Rodríguez, Dana Sajdi, Jeffrey Schrader, Jeffrey Scraba, Susan Slyomovics, Elizabeth Terry-­ Roisin, Tehseen Thaver, José Vázquez, and Ivonne Wallace Fuentes. Guest lectures by Eric Calderwood, Jerrilynn Dodds, José Antonio González Alcantud, and Richard Kagan enhanced our readings and discussion. Thanks especially to Dede for sharing her expertise in Islamic architectural design and Oscar for sharing a passion for nineteenth-century Spanish art and visual culture. Their friendship means a great deal to me. Archivists, librarians, and staff at many institutions made their collections available. In Spain, I wish to thank those at the Archivo del Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores, the Archivo General y Biblioteca Real de Palacio, the Arxiu Fotogràfic de Barcelona, the Biblioteca Nacional de Catalunya, the Biblioteca del Museo Nacional del Prado, and the Biblioteca Nacional de España. I received valuable assistance in Chile at the Biblioteca del Museo Histórico Nacional and the Biblioteca del Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes (Santiago); in Argentina at the Archivo General de la Nación, Biblioteca Nacional, Fundación Espigas, and Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes (Buenos Aires); and in Mexico at the Biblioteca Miguel Lerdo de Tejada. In the United States, I had the pleasure of receiving assistance at the Bancroft Library at the University of California, Berkeley (thank you, David Kessler); the Benson Latin American Collection at the University of Texas, Austin; the California Historical Society; the California State Library; Columbia University Libraries; Cornell University Special Collections; the New York Public Library; the San Francisco History Center, San Francisco Public Library (Jeff Thomas and Christina Moretta); the Committee of 100, San Diego (Mike Kelly); the Stanford Library (thank you, Katie Keller!); the Thomas J. Watson Library at the Metropolitan Museum of Art; the San Diego History Center; and UC Berkeley’s

acknowled gments

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Ethnic Studies Library (Lillian Castillo-Speed). I also made extensive use of the collections and interlibrary loan services of the University of Alberta’s excellent Rutherford Library and Bruce Peel Special Collections. Tammy Lau and Adam Wallace at the Special Collections Research Center, Henry Madden Library, California State University, Fresno, deserve special recognition for making available and promoting “fair-use” publication of the fabulous Donald G. Larson Collection on International Expositions and Fairs. I wish also to acknowledge the Smithsonian Institution Libraries for sponsoring me as a Baird Society Resident Scholar. Lilla Vekerdy, head of special collections, and Kirsten van der Veen, Dibner Library of the History of Science and Technology at the National Museum of American History, made my stay a pleasure. Others who furthered my work during my research trip to Washington, D.C., were Brandon Fortune, Carolyn Kinder Carr, and Dorothy Moss at the National Portrait Gallery; Carmen Ramos at the Smithsonian American Art Museum; Joan Boudreau and Helena Wright at the National Museum of American History; and staff at the NMAH Archives Center, NMAH Library, and Smithsonian American Art Museum/American Art and Portrait Gallery Library. I had the pleasure of completing this book while a visiting research professor at the Instituto Franklin at the Universidad de Alcalá de Henares. Julio Cañero, the director, and his staff provided me with the time and resources I needed to finish this manuscript in Spain. Working with the Pennsylvania State University Press has been a great pleasure. Thanks to the anonymous readers who approved and improved my manuscript, and also to Eleanor Goodman, Hannah Hebert, Jennifer Norton, Laura Reed-Morrisson, and Suzanne Wolk. From Alcalá de Henares, it is an easy trip to Madrid, where I spent time with friends I have known now for decades: María Soto, Isabel and Mari Carmen Vilaplana, Sandra Martín and Javier Román, Ramón Zúñiga and Lourdes Marquiegui, and Silvia Tenenbaum. My family has been ever supportive, especially Claire and Jerry McCleery, Joyce Boone, John and Laurie Boone, Virginia Feder, and of course Nathalia. I wish my father, John Boone, were still here so I could make him proud. A special note of gratitude to Marco Katz Montiel, who never hesitates to say yes. ¡Gracias, mi amor! Financial support for my research was provided by the President’s Grants for the Creative and Performing Arts from the Killam Research Fund, a Support for the Advancement of Scholarship (SAS) Grant, and the Endowment Fund for the Future Capital Recruitment Fund, all at the University of Alberta. Major funding was provided by a Standard Research Grant from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. All translations, unless otherwise noted, are my own. —Alcalá de Henares, May 1, 2018

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acknowled gments

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 Introduction

W

a lt w hitm a n wa s right. “we amer icans,” wrote the poet and essayist in his 1883 essay “The Spanish Element in Our Nationality,” “have yet to really learn our own antecedents, and sort them, to unify them. They will be found ampler than has been supposed, and in widely different sources. Thus far, impress’d by New England writers and schoolmasters, we tacitly abandon ourselves to the notion that our United States have been fashion’d from the British Islands only, and essentially form a second England only—which is a very great mistake.”1 “To that composite American identity of the future, Spanish character will supply some of the most needed parts,” continued Whitman, in recognition of Spain’s relevance to United States. He was writing in honor of the 333rd anniversary of Spanish settlement in Santa Fe, in the U.S. Territory of New Mexico, but scholars, among them historian Felipe Fernández-Armesto, are only now beginning to “show that there are other US histories than the standard Anglo narrative.”2 This book aspires to a similar goal. The thirteen colonies that banded together to form the United States of America in 1776 had indeed been colonial possessions of the English, but to define a nation that now encompasses much more than a singular strip of Atlantic coastline in such narrow and universalizing terms ignores the contributions of the many others who also participated in the founding moments and complex histories of the nation. This book seeks to understand one such underrecognized history of the United States—the Spanish—in order to facilitate the embrace of a diverse, more just, and multinational future. How an English-only definition of U.S. national identity developed is jokingly explained by D.  S. Cohen and H.  B. Sommer in their irreverent history of the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial, titled Our Show: A Humorous Account of the International Exposition. “If the late Christopher Columbus, Esq., could have foreseen,

1

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as an indirect result of his little excursion in the spring of 1492, the infliction of the following pages upon posterity, Mr. Columbus, very likely, would have stayed at home.”3 Spain, the country that financed Columbus’s historic voyage across the Atlantic, came to exactly the same conclusion, staying home from the San Francisco World’s Fair some forty years later, in 1915. In 1876, the Spanish government installed an impressive display of agricultural and industrial products, financed the construction of three buildings, and shipped a valuable collection of paintings from the national museum to Philadelphia for exhibition on the grounds of Fairmount Park. Seventeen years later, in 1893, the Spanish sent to Chicago’s Columbian Exposition another large display of fine art, designed two richly ornamented architectural spaces for the exhibition of manufactured and agricultural goods, and collaborated with the United States on the construction of three full-sized replicas of Columbus’s ships, the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa María. But in 1915, despite repeated invitations, a highly publicized fact-finding visit to San Francisco by the Spanish commissioner of tourism and culture, and a direct appeal to the Spanish king, the Spanish decided not to participate in the Panama-Pacific International Exposition. The Spanish were likewise absent from the Panama-California Exposition in San Diego, organized that same year as a fantasy Spanish city sited in a part of the United States that for more than three centuries, until Mexico won independence in 1821, had been part of Spain’s extensive colonial empire. The question of why Spain stayed home from the California fairs is a complicated one, and the ways in which Spain and the United States subsequently constructed their histories, in comparison with and in contrast to each other, provide one important point of explanation. Spain, between the years 1876 and 1915, was effectively written out of the history of the United States, which placed the origin of the nation at Plymouth Rock rather than in Florida, New Mexico, or any other part of the United States with Spanish roots that actually preceded the arrival of the English. Cohen and Sommer performed a similar sleight of hand, garbling facts and deliberately mistaking the fifteenth-century Catholic queen Isabella I for Queen Isabel de Borbón, who had been deposed in 1868. Columbus, they wrote, “was simply a Brazilian sea captain, who believed there were two sides to every question, even to such a serious question as the world. Having taught Queen Isabella of Spain, who had not then abdicated, how to make an egg stand and drink an egg-flip, she gave him, under the influence of the latter, command of the steamer ‘Mayflower,’ with permission to row out and see what he could find. He landed at Plymouth Rock [and] discovered the city of Boston.”4 The United States was English, and the importance of Spain, along with the multiple Spanish settlements founded in territory eventually incorporated into the United States, was largely rewritten, if not entirely forgotten. Ponce de León, who traveled with Columbus on his second journey across the

2

“ the spanish element in our nationality ”

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Atlantic, journeyed north to Florida in 1513; Lucas Vázquez de Ayllón founded a settlement on the coast of Georgia in 1526; Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca began his journey across Texas and through the southwest in 1527; and Pedro Menéndez de Avilés founded the city of St. Augustine, the oldest continuously inhabited European settlement in today’s continental United States, in 1565, all well before the 1620 landing of the Mayflower. Regional histories celebrate these events, but the national history of the United States minimizes their importance and buries them from sight. The fairs and exhibitions that mark the five historical moments examined in “The Spanish Element in Our Nationality” are used to trace this process of erasure and may be productively considered in parallel, contradictory, and intertwining ways. The primary structure of the book is provided by the exhibitions mounted in the United States—in Philadelphia in 1876, in Chicago in 1893, and in San Francisco and San Diego in 1915, the basis of chapters 1, 3, and 5. Catalan, French, and Latin American celebrations were mounted in the years in between—in Barcelona and Paris in 1888 and 1889 and in Buenos Aires, Mexico City, and Santiago de Chile in 1910—providing the basis for chapters 2 and 4. Four of the celebrations took place in the United States (Philadelphia, Chicago, San Francisco, and San Diego); five received official recognition as world’s fairs (Philadelphia, Barcelona, Paris, Chicago, and San Francisco); and five commemorated violent revolutions that resulted in independence and the creation of new nations (Philadelphia, Paris, Buenos Aires, Mexico City, and Santiago de Chile). Each chapter uses the exhibition of paintings, the construction of ephemeral architectural space, and other manifestations of visual culture to build on issues of national display and nationhood toward a more comprehensive understanding of why the Spanish exhibitions were mounted and how they contributed, or were denied the opportunity to contribute, to the invention of national identity in the United States. The project draws on current literature in U.S., Latinx, Iberian, and Latin American studies and pays particular attention to theories of exhibition display, national identity and memory, and the interpellation of religion, politics, and economics by art and visual culture. In addition, it brings to scholarly attention a body of work that is largely unfamiliar to English-speaking scholars; while Spain’s seventeenth-­ century golden age has received ample attention, its nineteenth-century artistic production is largely unknown. Cultural production in the United States and its relationship to Spain and the former Spanish colonies during the long nineteenth century has likewise only just begun to receive the attention it deserves.5 Early scholarship on the United States, produced in a mid-twentieth-century period of national confidence, was devoted to rediscovering the lives and work of individual artists and differentiating them

introduc tion

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from their English (and later French) contemporaries. John Singleton Copley became known primarily for his portraits of Boston colonials, Thomas Cole for his Hudson River School landscapes of the New Eden, and artists such as Thomas Eakins and Winslow Homer for what was described as an intrinsically realist style and local subject matter. The next generation of scholars began to expand the canon of artists, adding women and artists of color to the list and questioning the assumption that art in the United States had developed in isolation from the world at large. Links were drawn to history, literature, and other fields in the arts, humanities, and social sciences, and new theoretical models were used to broaden the methods of engagement with art and visual culture. Connections to the cultural traditions of Germany and Italy were fruitfully examined, as were cultural interactions with North Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. Placing the art of the United States in an international context is high on today’s art-historical agenda,6 yet links to Spain still leave much to be explored. Except for the paintings of Francisco Goya and Pablo Picasso, artistic production in Spain over the long nineteenth century has also been largely ignored in English-speaking America. I began offering a course on nineteenth-century Spanish art (playfully calling it “everything that happened between Goya and Picasso”) in the late 1990s, and this book introduces some of these forgotten artists, architects, and other cultural workers to a broader public. Comprehensive information about nineteenth-century Spanish art and visual culture is typically available only in Spanish texts with few reproductions, often of poor quality.7 Exhibition catalogues and trade publications, which generally feature better illustrations but receive poor distribution outside Spain, fill in some of the gaps by focusing on themes such as Spanish painters in Paris and Rome, views of particular cities, history and literary painting, gardens, and even night scenes.8 A complete catalogue of nineteenth-century Spanish painting at the Prado finally appeared in 2015,9 but books and exhibition catalogues based on national collections fail to include those artists and art forms not recognized by official history. Readers interested in the role of Spanish women will find few sources, all of them in Spanish.10 Those interested in institutional history can refer to books written in English by Oscar Vázquez and Alisa Luxenberg, and scholars concerned with periodical illustration may look to the work of Lou Charnon-Deutsch,11 but the recovery and wider dissemination of the history of nineteenth-century Spanish art, design, and visual culture, to say nothing of its relationship to the United States, is still very much a work in progress. Placing the United States and Spain in dialogue facilitates another important goal for contemporary historians of art: understanding cultural production in the United States in the context of the Americas more broadly. The historical relationship between the United States and the rest of the hemisphere is characterized

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by competition, collaboration, and change, and the need for dialogue increased during the nineteenth century as the many nations of America (including the United States) negotiated their borders and developed their own distinct national identities. As these identities became more firmly defined, and as the United States became more powerful and potentially threatening, early nineteenth-century hopes for hemispheric unity were replaced by visions of difference. Pan-Americanism, closely linked to U.S. imperialism, developed simultaneously with Latin Americanism, which sought to unite Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking nations into a coalition in defense of its own interests and independent of the United States.12 The United States, in defining itself as an English-speaking Protestant nation, became the antithesis of Spanish-speaking and Catholic Latin America. Although most of the Latin American nations, with the exception of Brazil, were republics, and although many had similarly rich mineral and agricultural resources, difference from the United States, rather than similarity, became embedded in their distinct national identities. The erasure of Spain from the United States has entrenched this impression of difference. Mauricio Tenorio Trillo, a Mexican-born historian who writes as fluently in English as in Spanish, saves his most trenchant observations about this issue for those who read him in his native tongue. While the official histories of Europe have been taken apart, examined, and reconstructed, claims Tenorio Trillo, historians of America have failed to move beyond the nineteenth-century model of the nation-state. In Historia y celebración: América y sus centenarios, he rhetorically questions the merit of this approach and warns of its future consequences: “Could not North American history become the symbol of a new relationship between Mexico, Central America, Canada, and the United States? Could it not become the symbol of a relationship in which recognition of cultural differences does not impede the assumption of a common past and present? Although some historians find it intellectually easy and academically profitable in the short term to defend the differences between Mexican and U.S. civilization, this route in the long run is both risky and unsustainable.”13 As historians of art and visual culture in the United States embrace an internationalist stance, a thorough interrogation of the processes by which current notions of the United States have failed to acknowledge this country’s shared history with Spain and the rest of Spanish-speaking America becomes ever more necessary. If the United States is America, in the everyday parlance of English, then the capacious nature of that word needs to be more fully recognized. An infelicity of the English language is the lack of a commonly employed adjective to designate those things associated with the United States.14 Architect Frank Lloyd Wright tried using the term “Usonian,” a word possibly coined by James Duff Law of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, in 1903. “We of the United States,

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in justice to Canadians and Mexicans, have no right to use the title ‘Americans’ when referring to matters pertaining exclusively to ourselves,” wrote Law. “Every day is keenly felt the want of a correct name for our great, grand, glorious, independent country.”15 As historians begin to look at the United States in relation to its hemispheric neighbors, the need for an appropriate (and less hegemonic) term is becoming more urgent. Some have tried using “North American,” ignoring the fact that Mexico is an integral part of North America. Scholars looking at artistic production in multiple parts of the hemisphere often employ the term “the Americas.” For these reasons, I use the word “American” in this book only in its inclusive hemispheric sense. The word “America,” like the word “Spain,” is problematized by this book. At first, it may sound stilted to avoid using the word “American” for people and things from the United States, but with time the ear becomes accustomed to the sound. World’s fairs and centennial celebrations are an excellent focal point for the consideration of such issues. Fairs and exhibitions, like museums, place things in a disciplined, chronological sequence. The term “ex-position,” notes literary scholar Beatriz González-Stephan, suggests the placing of something on view outside its normal place or context.16 To ex-pose something is to distort, reify, and transform it into an imagined symbol of the nation. Events and artifacts are removed from history and placed in an artificial realm of state-sponsored memory. In other words, world’s fairs use the past to imagine a present and future nation. Unlike the study of Spanish history in the United States, world’s fairs have received considerable attention during the past thirty years. Copious amounts of period literature exist for each of the celebrations under consideration—from official catalogues and final reports published by government agencies to visitors’ memoirs and daily news accounts in the local press—and these are important primary resources for my work. Much of the secondary literature on this topic, bringing together Ernest Renan and Walter Benjamin, is indebted to theories of the commodity and an understanding of national identity, institutional display, and the state.17 The various European and U.S. world’s fairs have been viewed as manifestations of empire and in relation to anthropological models of religion, rivalry, and ritual.18 Postcolonial studies have drawn attention to the ways in which subordinated peoples positioned themselves and “talked back” to the nations responsible for staging these grand events.19 Others have added to knowledge by attending to architectural and exhibition design, the display of scientific and medical instruments, the introduction and promotion of certain foods, and even such immaterial topics as the role of sound and music at the fairs.20 The past two decades have also seen the emergence of related work that explores the contributions of the various Latin American nations to the U.S. and European world’s fairs and the difficulties involved in attracting international

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attention (to say nothing of actual visitors) to festivities hosted in such countries as Argentina, Mexico, and Chile.21 Spain and its exhibitions at these celebrations, and at the other fairs examined in this book, provide a particularly useful lens through which to consider questions of nationhood and memory, for the history of all these host countries intersects with Spanish and U.S. history in provocative ways. Longtime expansionist rivalries between England, France, and Spain had profound effects in America, and looking at the differing ways that the Latin American nations celebrated both their independence from and their relationships to Europe helps differentiate them from one another, while also demonstrating surprising similarities with the United States. Art history is an inherently interdisciplinary field; even its name combines two distinct disciplines—art and history—that are often housed in separate departments within the academy. I have embraced this interdisciplinarity, while placing the visual at the center of my research. I rely on close examination of individual works (paintings, architectural spaces, posters, postcards, and photographs), using such art-historically specific methods as formal, iconographic, and comparative analysis in order to bring out the particularities of each work and understand its strategies of communication. I appreciate the fluidity of meaning and understand that visual culture functions differently depending upon time, place, context, and a number of other mutable factors. I am interested in social history and am indebted to Janet Wolff ’s claim that artistic production must be seen in relation to, and must be integrated with, its reception.22 Theories of artistic reception, derived from literary theory and founded on key texts by Wolfgang Iser and Hans Robert Jauss, posit the importance of the audience as a central site for the creation of meaning.23 While some like to focus exclusively on audience reception, I prefer the model proposed by Gillian Rose, who identifies in her book Visual Methodologies three sites for the production of meaning: the site of production, the site of the image, and the site of its audience.24 Each of these sites offers multiple avenues for interrogation, and close consideration of all three, with particular attention to the parallels and contradictions that emerge among them, provides the material from which I have developed a serious, sustained, and appropriately complex consideration of this topic. I use a variety of different sources in this book, from primary documents produced by artists and organizers, to the paintings and exhibitions themselves, to documented responses to those displays, both graphic and textual. I am aware that there are levels of representation in this material: the fairs themselves served as illusionary simulacrums of the world, and photographs introduce an additional level of representation into the mix. Many individuals, in fact, experienced these events through reproduction (photographs, illustrations, and written descriptions) rather than through an actual visit to the fair. I examine the

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ways in which Spain and Spanishness became manifest at the world’s fairs and centennial expositions, reading the history of fine art and other manifestations of material and visual culture in the context of descriptions written by and for readers in the United States and Spain, and in France, Cuba, Argentina, Mexico, and Chile. Using a wide range of primary material from newspapers, periodicals, and archives in each of these nations, I reconstruct the histories of these exhibitions—from conceptualization to reception—and place them in the context of other forms of public display, such as political cartoons, civic sculpture, and popular parades, produced during each exhibition year. Patricia Johnston has observed that art historians sometimes use visual culture to elevate fine art, while historians use images to illustrate historical events, failing to analyze how these images communicate and contribute to history. These multiple manifestations of the visual, however, may also be seen as interwoven, complementary, and interdependent. Together, in Johnston’s words, fine art and visual culture “reveal the workings of power and ideology.”25 Accordingly, I have consciously worked to incorporate and weave together a broad variety of visual media in my discussion of these fine art and industrial exhibitions. Paintings, exhibitions, and other forms of national display are created with an imagined audience in mind, and the people responsible for the visual presentations examined in this book—artists, government officials, and entrepreneurs—all believed a version of history that they presented to their audience. Thus I also make use of recent theories of national identity and memory. Ernest Renan was one of the first to question essentialist definitions of nationhood when he declared in 1882 that shared memories of the past and hopes for the future, rather than racial or religious similarity, brought and kept people together as a society. Building on Renan, Eric Hobsbawm, Benedict Anderson, and Michael Kammen began presenting their ideas about invented traditions and imagined communities just over a century later. The expanding field of memory studies is also important, and I am especially indebted to Paul Connerton’s observation that our experience of the present largely depends upon our knowledge of the past, and that our images of the past commonly serve to legitimate our current social order. These two axioms, Connerton concludes, are most effectively conveyed and sustained by ritual performance and commemorative celebration.26 Caroline Jones has expanded upon this observation by chronicling a shift from the display of objects at early world’s fairs to the manufacturing of experience at today’s biennial exhibitions.27 Theoretical work on memory by Pierre Nora and Barbara Misztal, along with recent scholarship that brings memory and national commemoration together, is also crucial to my approach.28 “The Spanish Element in Our Nationality” approaches nationhood and transnational relations in order to understand both what is remembered and what is forgotten.

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Transnational studies and theories of hybridity, which allow inhabitants of the United States, like those of other countries, to embrace multiple subjectivities and a layered national identity, provide an opportunity to view cultural production from various perspectives, think through unsustainable binaries such as Spain and the United States, and add critical richness to our understanding of art, history, and culture. As early as 1916, Randolph Bourne published an essay in the Atlantic Monthly called “Trans-National America,” in which he challenged the idea that all citizens of the United States would, could, or should “be forcibly assimilated to that Anglo-Saxon tradition which they unquestionably label ‘American.’”29 Bourne, who was writing in the context of deeply divided opinion about U.S. involvement in World War I, saw cosmopolitanism—he referred to the United States as a “federation” of nations—as the best possibility for social advances and unification in the future. Although he accepted without question the dictum that the first permanent immigrants to the United States were English, and although he limited his view to the northeastern United States, where large numbers of new European immigrants from eastern and southern Europe were arriving in cities, Bourne’s challenge to the idea of assimilation provides a prescient introduction to theories of multiple subjectivity, hybridity, and transculturation developed more recently by scholars such as Mary Louise Pratt, Homi Bhabha, and Néstor García Canclini.30 Recent work that applies these ideas to American art by Carolyn Dean, Dana Leibsohn, and J. M. Mancini, among others, has been particularly useful to me in this regard.31 Transnational study, a comparative approach distinct from theories of national and personal hybridity, has been described variously as a web, a fabric, a network, and a matrix.32 In “Defining Transnationalism,” Patricia Clavin likens this field to a honeycomb “that sustains and gives shape to the identities of nation-states, international and local institutions, and particular social and geographic spaces.” A honeycomb, Clavin says, both binds and contains “hollowed-out spaces where organizations, individuals and ideas can wither away to be replaced by new groups, people and innovations.”33 The fluidity of Clavin’s model, one in which relations can change and mutate, is particularly appropriate when considering the histories of a place, like America, subject to colonization, resistance, rebellion, and their aftermath. Cultural critic Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak was likewise searching for a new model of comparative studies when she called for the blending of area studies with the humanities, aspiring to a field of inquiry that would combine the rigor of the one without the smug assurance of a Eurocentric worldview found in the other.34 “The virtue of a comparative approach,” writes Ruth Phillips in a discussion of Indigenous modernisms, “is that it reveals both parallels and variations—both the shared ideologies, colonial cultures and points of historical intersection that combined to form a world system of primitivist taste, and the local specificities

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and contingencies that shaped each history’s distinctive iteration of modernism. Comparison also provides insight into the inequalities of power and the layered colonialisms that characterize artistic production.”35 Transnational study challenges me to layer my thinking and reconsider the centers and margins of time and place, as well as of fine art and visual culture.36 Accordingly, “The Spanish Element in Our Nationality” tries to unsettle and reconsider traditional hierarchies and ways of understanding art, identity, and the nation in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. There are serious challenges to the integration of “Spanish America” into the history of the United States, challenges not only from proponents of an Englishonly history of the country but also from the infliction of written history on the pages of Spanish-speaking America. Bernardo de Gálvez, the Spanish governor of Louisiana during the reign of Carlos III, provided covert support to colonial revolutionaries at the outbreak of hostilities in 1776 and took direct military action against British forts in the Mississippi River basin after Spain entered the war in 1779.37 Citizens in west Florida and east Texas may be familiar with his name—the city of Galveston is named for him—but it wasn’t until 2014 that the U.S. government granted him a place in the national pantheon, 231 years after Congress promised (but failed) to accept a portrait of the governor for display in the U.S. Capitol.38 A contemporary copy of a portrait depicting Gálvez, whose contributions were long overshadowed by the French Marquis de Lafayette, only now hangs in a room used by the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. At the same time, Gálvez was offered posthumous honorary U.S. citizenship; he is the eighth foreigner to be so recognized and the only one from Spain. Teresa Valcarce, a native of Spain who is now a U.S. citizen living outside Washington, D.C., lobbied tirelessly on behalf of Gálvez and his portrait. The project was long overdue, and it was ultimately completed without serious controversy. The commemoration of Father Junípero Serra developed quite differently, however. In 1931, the state of California presented a bronze statue of the Spanish friar to Congress, where it became part of the National Statuary Hall Collection in the U.S. Capitol. Cloaked in a Franciscan habit and standing in contrapposto, Father Serra raises a large cross toward heaven with one hand while cradling the model of a mission church in the other. Pope Francis was photographed with the statue during his 2015 visit to Washington, D.C., during which he canonized the friar at a Mass celebrated at the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception.39 Father Serra’s reputation has been especially conflicted in California, where Native Americans and Chicanos, who have embraced their Indigenous rather than their Spanish heritage as an expression of solidarity against colonizing forces, are unwilling to celebrate a Spanish priest aligned with an imperial project that led

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to the decimation of Native populations. Hostility toward Spain and the Spanish can be traced to inequities established and abuses perpetrated in colonial New Spain, to Mexico’s own independence, and—one hundred years later—to the Mexican Revolution, during which many Mexicans fled the war for safety and work opportunities in California. The debate leading up to the canonization of Father Serra was heated, and after the 2015 ceremony, a stone statue of the Franciscan standing in the cemetery of Mission Carmel was defaced with paint. Statues of the Franciscan friar in the cities of Carmel and neighboring Monterey were vandalized as well.40 Historical propaganda promoting the Black Legend, which defined the Spanish as brutal conquistadors in search of wealth, in contrast to peaceable English colonizers fleeing religious persecution in Europe, has also made recognition and commemoration of Spanish contributions to the United States difficult.41 English-speaking Americans subsequently transferred some of these anti-Spanish attitudes to Spanish-speaking Americans more generally.42 Our failure to consider these issues, including “the Spanish element of our nationality,” in all their complexity continues to affect the Latinx population today.43 The Pew Research Center, which maintains comprehensive census and demographic information, reported a total U.S. Latino population of 57 million (out of approximately 320 million total) in 2015, and the Guardian reported that the United States, with 41 million native Spanish speakers and 11 million who are bilingual, now has more Spanish speakers than Spain does. Only Mexico has more.44 The Smithsonian Institution, guardian of U.S. national history, has tried to respond to allegations of a pattern of “willful neglect” toward Latinos in the United States by increasing the number of Hispanic employees in the institution’s top leadership and curatorial positions and by mounting exhibitions such as Legacy: Spain and the United States in the Age of Independence, 1763–1848 and Our America: The Latino Presence in American Art in its museums.45 The curatorial staff and government sponsors of Legacy expressed the hope that their enterprise might “offer the important Hispanic communities with United States citizenship a deeper understanding of their cultural and historical background.”46 But a schism between Spain and immigrant cultures from postindependence Latin America continues to impede development of this history. Making a connection between contemporary Latinx experience and the past is one of the challenges and aspirations of this book. Others are likewise working with this goal at hand. When the New-York Historical Society organized Nueva York (1613–1945), a 2010 catalogue and exhibition at the Museo del Barrio in New York, the authors began their narrative with the 1613 arrival of Juan Rodríguez (called Jan Rodrigues by the Dutch), a Spanish-speaking Sephardic Jew from Santo Domingo, in what is now the Dominican Republic.47 New York in the seventeenth century, historian Mike Wallace notes in his excellent essay on this

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East Coast city’s “backstory,” was an anti-Spanish city, yet its extensive relations with Spain, its empire, and then its former empire in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries are deeply important for understanding the situation today.48 Roxana Velásquez, director of the San Diego Museum of Art, put the point succinctly when speaking about the acquisition of Spanish paintings, from works by seventeenth-century artists Francisco de Zurbarán and Juan de Valdés Leal to early twentieth-century painters like Joaquín Sorolla. “Why do we want to have these kinds of paintings here in San Diego?” Velásquez asked rhetorically in a story in the San Diego Union-Tribune: “They tell the story of us, who we are and why we are here, and they can help us teach the students.”49 There is no denying that Spain’s colonization of the Americas inflicted indescribable violence on Native communities, or that Spanishness, as opposed to Indigeneity, became a means of perpetuating inequality and injustice over the centuries that followed. But the presence of large Spanish-speaking populations in the United States requires that we better understand, complicate, and remember this history today if we are to move forward together in the future. The topic of Spain in the United States is, to use the word chosen by the historian Stanley Payne, “complicated,” demanding knowledge about the early arrival of Spanish people in places like Florida and, later on in the eighteenth century, California.50 It is made even more complex by the arrival of immigrants in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries from many parts of the Spanish-speaking Americas. Regional differences also come into play; whereas some Californians and New Mexicans romanticize their Spanish roots, Texans, who bore the brunt of the Mexican-American War, tend to disregard or downplay them. “The Spanish Element in Our Nationality” explores these thorny issues through the visual, by studying Spain’s participation (and refusal to participate) in a select grouping of world’s fairs and centennial celebrations from 1876 to 1915. It examines how Spain sought to define and position itself at each of these exhibitions, and how the United States, in comparison to other hosts, responded to, altered, and subverted Spain’s message, making it possible to marginalize, ignore, and ultimately forget Spain and its relevance to the history of the United States. The book begins in 1876 in Philadelphia with a series of questions: Why did the Spanish art exhibition, featuring such history paintings as Antonio Gisbert’s Landing of the Puritans in America (1864), inspire such a caustic response? Why were visitors in Philadelphia more interested in Spain’s exhibition of Cuban cigars, pickled fish from Galicia, and sherry from Jerez than in a group of prize-winning canvases from the National Museum in Madrid? And how do the answers to these questions relate to concerns of the day—burgeoning Catholic immigration in the United States and competition for agricultural markets, for example—and

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to the broader nineteenth-century project of inventing U.S. national identity in relation and opposition to European rivals and American neighbors? Although Spanish artists, collectors, and institutions took the risk of shipping works across the Atlantic in 1876, to manifest, in the words of Spain’s official correspondent, the “dignified presence merited by the nation that discovered the Americas,”51 most viewers in the United States used the display of Spanish historical and religious objects to validate their view that the United States had little in common with and owed nothing to Spain. The invention of national identity at the Philadelphia Centennial, I argue in chapter 1, was a reductive process that necessitated the selection of a single historical narrative that left no room for Spain. After exploring the simplification process that led so effectively to a cohesive U.S. national identity in Philadelphia, the book examines in chapter 2 how the Spanish government struggled to present itself as a unified nation both within its own unruly national borders and in the country next door. Whereas most nineteenth-­century world’s fairs were staged in capital cities, the 1888 Exposició Universal took place not in Madrid but in Barcelona, an industrial capital with its own distinct Catalan history, language, and cultural traditions. Spain’s regional heterogeneity made a simple definition of Spanishness difficult, and regional difference, rather than national unification, became an important and contentious message delivered at the Barcelona World’s Fair. The Spanish display was equally controversial at the 1889 Exposition Universelle in Paris, when the timing of the fair, arranged to coincide with the anniversary of the French Revolution, caused most European monarchies, including Spain, to boycott the exhibition, allowing privately funded commercial entities, eager to capitalize on traditional Spanish stereotypes for their own profit, to take the government’s place. Spanish identity, this chapter reveals, is complex and contradictory, allowing those abroad to emphasize those aspects they found useful and to distort and disregard those aspects they considered problematic. The Columbian Exposition of 1893 in Chicago, the subject of chapter 3, offered the Spanish an opportunity to reclaim a central role in America, and the government commemorated its participation in the Columbian enterprise by building a Spanish government building modeled after an early modern Valencian exchange (La Lonja), sailing three caravels to the White City, and sponsoring a trip to the fair by the Infanta Eulalia, sister to King Alfonso XII. Eulalia’s visit was hardly a success, however, and Chicago’s elite expressed decided disapproval when the young Spanish princess failed to perform as democratically inclined U.S. citizens believed a European royal should. Problems and controversies also marked the Spanish exhibitions mounted in the Latin American cities—Buenos Aires, Santiago de Chile, and Mexico City—celebrating a century of independence from colonial rule. While these exhibitions, the subject of chapter 4, did provide the

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Spanish government with a way to reinsert itself into American history, Mexican mural painter José Clemente Orozco remarked on the irony of celebrating Mexican independence with an exhibition of Spanish painting. Such dissatisfaction ran deep. The Mexican Revolution began a mere two months after the 1910 exhibition opened, and President Porfirio Díaz fled the country for Paris at the end of the year. Within differing national and social contexts, Argentina and Chile hosted exhibitions of Spanish painting to celebrate their liberation from Spanish rule as well. Who organized these exhibitions? Which Spanish painters sent (or did not send) their work to which countries, and why? How did the various segments of Argentine, Mexican, and Chilean society respond to this art? And what do their responses say about American identities other than and in relation to the one claimed by the citizens and institutional powers in the United States? Examining the responses to Spain in these three Latin American nations, each with significant variations in its political, economic, ethnic, and artistic circumstances, adds depth to our understanding of Spain and Spanish art, their impact on America, and notions of Americanness today. The final chapter focuses on California and the story of two cities, San Francisco and San Diego, that vied for the honor of hosting the international exposition that commemorated the 1915 opening of the Panama Canal. San Francisco won official recognition and mounted the Panama-Pacific International Exposition, a Beaux-Arts fair that opened to the public shortly after the outbreak of World War I. San Diego, in turn, mounted the Panama-California Exposition, using its location in the southwesternmost part of the United States to promote its historical ties to Spain and build a fantasy Spanish city within twentieth-­century U.S. borders. The roles played at these fairs by contemporary versus colonial Spain, and the position of Spanish, Californio (descendants of Spanish-speaking settlers who arrived in California during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries), and Mexican American people in the United States, provide valuable material for our understanding of U.S. national identity today. “The Spanish Element in Our Nationality” seeks to make better known the rich and understudied history of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Spanish artistic production and its reception in the United States; to understand and contextualize the varied, contradictory, and sometimes surprising responses to Spain and its history; and to explore the means by which Americans, from Buenos Aires to San Francisco (and from Santiago to San Diego), used exhibitions of Spanish art and history to mold their modern self-image.

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1 Inventing America at the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial

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i s i t ors e nt e ring t he spanish art gallery at Philadelphia’s International Exhibition of 1876 encountered an impressive display of history paintings, many of which had received awards at earlier exhibitions in Madrid and Paris, hung salon style along the west wall of Memorial Hall (figs. 1 and 2). Spain shared the room with Sweden; Spanish paintings covered one side of the long gallery and Swedish pictures hung on the other. Prominently placed on the left and right ends of the Spanish wall were two historical subjects from the 1860s: Dióscoro Puebla’s First Landing of Columbus and Antonio Gisbert’s Disembarkation of the Puritans in America. Puebla depicted the famed Genoese commander kneeling in thanks, his sword touching the ground, standard fluttering in the breeze, his head raised heavenward. Gisbert’s protagonist likewise looks up toward God. These two Spanish paintings depict successive moments in American history. Columbus sailed on behalf of the Spanish in 1492, and the Pilgrims sailed from England more than one hundred years later, in 1620. The implications seem clear: a succession of travelers from a variety of European locales—Spain, Italy, and England, among others—arrived and contributed to the history of the country being celebrated at the Centennial of 1876. The Spanish commissioner responsible for arranging the works in Memorial Hall undoubtedly hoped that Spain might contribute to a conversation about the origins of the United States, but Philadelphia-born art critic Earl Shinn, writing under the pen name Edward Strahan, disagreed. He responded to Gisbert’s painting with undisguised surprise: “‘The Landing of the Puritans in America,’ by A. Gisbert, although it is a better piece of work than the others named, is chiefly interesting because no one hereabouts would ever have expected a Spanish artist to choose such a theme. ‘The Landing of Columbus’ . . . is, or ought to

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Figure 1 Centennial Photographic Company, Memorial Hall—Spain, 1876. Free Library of Philadelphia, Print and Picture Collection, c021685.

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be, an entirely congenial theme with a Spanish painter, but ‘The Landing of the Puritans’—that is a very different matter.”1 A Spanish painter might reasonably depict Columbus’s landing on the Caribbean island of Hispaniola because his journey, supported by the Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella, laid the foundation for the colonization of America. Spanish attempts to speak about the English origins of the United States were unexpected, however, if not unwelcome. America, by 1876, had been firmly divided into the United States, which traced its history to England, and the mostly Spanish-speaking republics to the south. Spanish painters of ­American history, Shinn seems to suggest, should restrict themselves to subjects linked to Spanish America. The United States owed nothing to Spain. The Spanish received a chilly response to their exhibitions of industrial and ­agricultural products as well. At best, U.S. critics saw Spanish participation at the Philadelphia fair as a surprisingly good presentation by a nation with which they had little in common. At worst, they found validation for entrenched preconceptions of Spain as a nation in decline, with limited contemporary reach beyond the Iberian Peninsula. Whereas Great Britain (and France, in artistic matters)

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Figure 2 Centennial Photographic Company, Vista del pabellón de bellas artes, 1876. Biblioteca del Palacio Real, Patrimonio Nacional, RB FOT/684 (10202863). Photo © Patrimonio Nacional.

functioned as motherland, Spain, much like Italy, was considered decadent, unworthy, and waning in importance. Spain and the United States were consolidating their national identities in the late nineteenth century, but the Spanish were trying to unite their country in ways that sat poorly with ideas being promoted in the United States. Spain presented itself as a nation with a rich agricultural tradition, a Catholic nation ruled by the recently restored Bourbon monarchy, whereas the United States was imagining itself as a democratic republic populated by Protestants who were modernizing their country’s agricultural base with the help of new industrial technologies. Language differences furthered their divide. Although both countries were working to integrate diverse populations into cohesive units, the strategies through which they hoped to accomplish this task contrasted with each other. Spain and the United States understood the past from different positions; they saw the present through different eyes. Neither Spain’s exhibition of fine arts nor its exhibitions of agriculture and industrial manufactures received a positive reception in Philadelphia, the city in which the Declaration of the Independence had been signed one hundred years earlier. This chapter will demonstrate that the invention of America, the creation of a singular U.S. national identity, demanded the exclusion of a Spanish point of view.

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Commemorating the Past and Illustrating Advances In truth, the Spanish were slow to prepare for the Philadelphia Centennial. On July 15, 1873, José Polo de Bernabé, the Spanish minister plenipotentiary in Washington, D.C., forwarded to Madrid the U.S. invitation to participate in an international exposition “designed to commemorate the Declaration of Independence of the United States, on the one hundredth anniversary of that interesting and historic national event.”2 U.S. Secretary of State Hamilton Fish had released his call on the day after the Fourth of July, patriotically proclaiming as the goal of the fair “the display of the results of Art and Industry of all nations . . . to illustrate the great advances attained, and the successes achieved, in the interest of Progress and Civilization during the century which will have then closed.”3 The fair’s ostensibly straightforward objective was twofold: to commemorate a moment in the past history of the United States and to mark the nation’s achievements in the present. On February 21, 1874, after a delay of seven months, the Spanish government issued a royal decree accepting the invitation.4 Two months later, Polo de Bernabé met with Fish to communicate acceptance on behalf of his government.5 Inattention, if not procrastination, characterized Spain’s initial response to the fair. The Spanish were not the only ones who were slow to prepare for the centennial. The financial crisis of 1873 may be faulted for some slowdown in the action, while arguments over the site selection delayed preparations further.6 Ricardo Alfredo Palomino, Spanish consul in the City of Philadelphia, reported in October 1874 on continuing arguments in Congress over where the celebration was to be held and the refusal of various representatives to appropriate money that would support a fair in a state other than their own. Palomino updated his superiors on plans, continuing battles about the site, and costs four months later, in January 1875.7 Meanwhile, Fairmount Park commissioners released land to the Centennial Commission, and in the absence of a federal allocation, the City of Philadelphia began selling stock to finance the buildings. Design and construction, overseen by the German-born architect Hermann J. Schwarzmann, did not begin until the summer of 1875. Prompted by another letter, this one from Caleb Cushing at the U.S. Legation in Madrid, Ministro de Fomento (Minister of Development) Carlos Navarro y Rodrigo finally appointed a large Spanish Centennial Commission consisting of some sixty individuals in October 1874 to prepare the Spanish exhibitions.8 Navarro, who was serving Spain’s short-lived First Republic, provided two reasons for participating in the fair. An exhibition of Spanish agricultural and industrial products in the United States could help expand Spain’s markets in Latin America, whose representatives would probably travel north to study this grand exhibition of industry; in addition, Spanish delegates in Philadelphia could learn more about

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raw materials and useful new technologies being developed on the other side of the Atlantic.9 Navarro, focusing on ways to align Spain with the other nations of western Europe, saw his country as a modernizing nation, even if industrialization was occurring at a slower rate than in other parts of the continent. Promoting the fine arts was of secondary importance, and little mention of artistic participation appears in official correspondence related to the government’s decision to take part in the celebration. Navarro lost his position with the fall of the First Republic at the end of 1874, but diplomatic discussions continued through the spring of 1875, primarily about the allocation of space. Philadelphia organizers initially offered Spain a total of fifteen thousand square feet, approximately the amount it had occupied at the 1873 Exposition in Vienna, and Spanish representatives wanted more. Palomino, the consular representative in Philadelphia, suggested seventy thousand, but his superiors thought this was too much. They agreed to request twenty thousand in the Main Exhibition Building for manufactured and industrial goods, twenty thousand in Agricultural Hall, and four thousand each for Machinery and Memorial Halls.10 As costs escalated, doubts began to surface, and by July the Spanish government was sending inquiries to consular representatives in other European nations to find out who was participating and how much money they were spending.11 Toward the middle of August 1875, when many of Madrid’s residents were on vacation, the new minister of development, Manuel de Orovio, issued an order dissolving Navarro’s sixty-member commission and establishing a much smaller committee.12 Two months later, Francisco (Francesc) López Fabra, a Catalan publisher who had served as a delegate at the 1873 Vienna Exposition, was appointed royal commissioner-general to the fair (fig. 3). His Memoria administrativa serves as an important account of Spanish activity at the fair, as does the collection of photographs produced by the Centennial Photographic Company and compiled in an album for presentation upon his return.13 Álvaro de la Gándara was named director of industry and machinery, José Jordana y Morera director of agriculture, and Norberto López de Valdemoro, the Conde de Donadío, commissioner of fine arts. In addition, the Ministry of War appointed Colonel Juan J. Marín to oversee a corps of military engineers that would travel to Philadelphia to assist with the construction of exhibition space and protection of the exhibits. Luis Alfonso, named official chronicler of the fair, prepared the final report. These appointments were political, and the men were charged with presenting and promoting a conservative vision in line with the just-restored Spanish monarchy. The decade preceding Philadelphia’s Centennial Exhibition had been tumultuous for Spain. Manuel de Orovio had served the Bourbons as minister of development before the “Glorious Revolution” of 1868, which had sent Isabel II into exile

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Figure 3  España a Filadelfia, in La Llumanera 3 (June 1876): 5.

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and brought liberals, moderates, and republicans temporarily into power. A brief constitutional monarchy, established in 1870 and headed by Amadeo of Savoy, Duke of Aosta, collapsed in 1873 in favor of the First Spanish Republic, which itself collapsed less than two years later. Meanwhile, Cuban nationalists began fighting for independence in the Ten Years’ War, which spanned the years 1868 to 1878, and supporters of the Carlist line of royal succession reignited their claims for the throne with the Third Carlist War, dividing the nation from 1872 to 1876. Carlos VII, the royal pretender, played on separatist sentiments within the country, finding particular support in the northern and eastern regions of Spain, where he proclaimed the restoration of Catalan, Valencian, and Basque fueros (regional laws) and supported local languages and customs. With the Bourbons restored to the throne at the end of 1874 and Orovio back in power, the government turned its attention to quelling internal revolt, reunifying the country under Isabel’s son, Alfonso XII, and restoring order in Cuba. “The country’s energies were so absorbed by the scale of internal problems,” writes historian Enrique Moradiellos, “that there was scarcely any strength left to attend adequately to external interests and problems.”14 An expensive exhibition on the other side of the Atlantic was low on the list of Orovio’s priorities. Orovio explicitly cited the Cuban and Carlist insurrections in the lengthy prologue to his reversal: “Overwhelmed by two civil wars that have weakened its power and diminished its resources, Spain will not be able to compete with the national expenditures made by countries that are at peace, nor show its industrial progress at the Philadelphia Exposition as favorably as they can.”15 World’s fairs, he continued, were being held with increasing frequency, and recent experience had shown that not all of them rewarded the expenditures they entailed. Spain had participated in five such expositions, receiving a large number of medals for its agricultural displays in particular, but the new markets that might be expected from large government subventions had failed to materialize. Other countries that had initially responded to the invitation with enthusiasm were also beginning to reconsider; some had decided to show their opposition to steep U.S. tariffs by withdrawing completely, and others had elected to limit their financial commitment to a reasonable and predetermined fixed sum. Spain, Orovio concluded, must curtail its expenses without offending a friendly nation. He dissolved the 1874 Centennial Commission, established a volunteer jury, and reduced the budget by almost half. He also made a shrewd appointment with López Fabra, a Catalan politician loyal to the Bourbon monarchy; his appointment signaled the Restoration government’s hope for pacification of the recalcitrant region. The new commission went to work and issued a lengthy circular in September directed to potential exhibitors in Spain, the Canary Islands, the Philippines, Cuba, and Puerto Rico. The commission expressed its confidence that provincial

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administrators and those who had participated in previous world’s fairs would know what to send and how to prepare it, abdicating responsibility for the actual selection of the work to be displayed. Exhibitors were responsible for packing, labeling, and transporting their products to provincial collection sites, from which exhibits would be forwarded to central sites in Madrid, Barcelona, Cádiz, and Santander. Labeling was to be done in duplicate, with copies sent to Philadelphia for use in completing the official catalogue. The government promised to pay for shipping to the United States. The fine arts exhibits were to be brought to Madrid for consolidation into a single shipment, while products from the Canary Islands, the Antilles, and the Philippines would travel directly to the fair. The government-­ appointed officials responsible for installation in Philadelphia had little information about the actual contents of exhibits until they arrived and opened the crates.

The Discovery of America by a Unified Nation López Fabra, the royal commissioner-general, arrived in Philadelphia accompanied by a small contingent of dignitaries only two months after his appointment, on New Year’s Day 1876. Surprised to find the local press not only disdainful but aggressive toward his country, he made himself available to all the major newspapers in New York and Philadelphia in the hope of improving the atmosphere. He found that Spain’s requests for space had been ignored; no room at all had been reserved in Agricultural Hall, and the space provided for Spanish displays in the other buildings was deficient. He eventually acquired approximately fourteen thousand square feet in the Main Exhibition Building and six thousand in Agricultural Hall (the request had been for twenty thousand in each). He also acquired an additional subvention from the Spanish government with which to erect a pavilion to exhibit a military collection, along with overflow displays from the other buildings at the fair.16 Members of the Spanish military arrived by steamship two months later and were greeted by López Fabra and members of the Spanish expatriate community (colonia) in New York. Alfredo Escobar, who accompanied the Spanish commission and published a series of letters in La Ilustración Española y Americana, one of Madrid’s best-read illustrated weeklies, described their arrival. Escobar’s letters were also published in La Época, a monarchist newspaper run by his father, and compiled in a book at the end of his journey. The military contingent consisted of a sergeant, six corporals, and seventeen soldiers selected from the arsenals, factories, and battlefields of Spain. “Only a few days before,” Escobar wrote with pride, “they were listening to the sounds of gunfire announcing victory for the peninsula; today they arrive to witness the victory of peace.” Their reception by the Spanish colonia, many of whom, like the commissioner-general, were from

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Catalonia, exceeded Escobar’s expectations. Catalan nationalism, evident in the publication of a monthly journal in the Catalan language (see fig. 3), was subsumed by loyalty to the Spanish nation. A portrait of King Alfonso XII presided over the welcoming banquet in New York, toasts extolled a “Cuba española,” and Spanish flags flew next to and intertwined with the stars and stripes.17 The head of the detachment, Colonel Juan Marín, was later named a juror of education and science at the centennial, while Daniel Cortázar, one of the chief engineers in the group, performed the same function for minerals and mining. The Spanish had been granted fewer judging positions than England, France, Germany, or Austria, and these new appointments compensated, in some part, for the slight.18 Cortázar also supplemented the reports submitted by Alfonso and López Fabra by compiling his own account of the fair for his superiors in Madrid, including a reprint of all the official documents issued by the United States and Spain. López Fabra was particularly concerned with the exhibition of industrial products in the Main Building, and upon arrival the soldiers were put to work building a grand triumphal arch and surrounding enclosure to serve as the entry to the display. As photographers in 1876 still required long exposure times and therefore rarely included people, drawings are better able to capture human interaction with these ephemeral architectural spaces at the fair (figs. 4 and 5). The illustration of the “Spanish Pavilion” reproduced in Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Historical Register shows the military men hard at work. Comparison with a photograph reveals some exaggeration in scale, but the drawing animates the scene as the photograph cannot by including two officers working on the cornice at left, one standing atop a ladder beneath the central arch, and two others decorating the façade with an ornamental garland. Another soldier stands on the floor, stabilizing the scaffolding from below. Ladies and gentlemen who have come to watch and discuss the workmen’s progress are also depicted in the scene. The man speaking with an acquaintance at left serves as the drawing’s Rückenfigur, an individual seen from the back who provides the viewer entry into the image. This man tilts his head back, the better to see the large structure before him. A drawing titled “Main Building—Spanish Court” was also included in Masterpieces of the Centennial International Exhibition, the same three-volume work in which Shinn’s critique of Gisbert’s painting appeared (fig. 6). Depicting the arch after completion, this illustration includes a Spanish soldier mingling easily with the visiting public. A man on the left reads a guidebook to his companion, while several couples view displays mounted within the arch. Even a family—the daughter turns toward the center of the composition, directing our gaze toward the soldier—is present in this image. The Spanish military detachment, neatly uniformed, politely deferential, and decidedly unthreatening, appears often in published drawings of the Philadelphia World’s Fair.

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Figure 4 Centennial Photographic Company, Vista del pabellón de la industria, 1876. Biblioteca del Palacio Real, Patrimonio Nacional, RB FOT/684 (10202880). Photo © Patrimonio Nacional.

Figure 5  Spanish Pavilion, in Frank H. Norton, ed., Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Historical Register of the Centennial Exposition, 1876 (New York: Frank Leslie’s Publishing House, 1877), 50.

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Figure 6  Main Building— Spanish Court, in Edward Strahan [Earl Shinn], Walter Smith, and Joseph M. Wilson, The Masterpieces of the Centennial International Exhibition, 3 vols. (Philadelphia: Gebbie & Barrie, 1876), 3:162.

Despite its imposing appearance, the Spanish archway was not placed in the most prominent section of the Main Exhibition Building. The United States, Great Britain, France, and Germany occupied the center of the building; Austria-Hungary and Russia came next, with Spain providing a transition from Europe to Turkey and Egypt (fig. 7). The organization of space at a nineteenth-century world’s fair functioned like a metaphorical map of the world, conforming to the view of the organizers and only to a lesser degree to the particularities of geography. The location of a nation on this imaginary map was one marker of its importance, and the amount of territory it controlled was another. Other countries hosting world’s fairs organized their floor plans in a similar fashion. The host country was typically given the most space and placed in the center, surrounded by those other nations with which it sought alignment. Spain had a small footprint at the Philadelphia Centennial, and its position, between Russia and the Ottoman Empire, connected it to the East.

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Figure 7  Main Exhibition Building, in United States Centennial Commission, International Exhibition, 1876: Official Catalogue, rev. ed. (Philadelphia: John R. Nagle, 1876), part 1, 26.

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The Spanish triumphal arch suggested nothing of the Orient, however. Designed in wood by Italian furniture makers working in Spain, this grand entrance employed a classicizing style suggestive of the Renaissance, a period during which scientific advances in navigation, geography, and natural history led to Spain’s rise as an empire. Ephemeral architectural spaces at world’s fairs were, paradoxically, used to create essentialist (and fixed) notions of the nation. At the Paris Exposition of 1867, the first to include national pavilions, the Spanish had constructed an early sixteenth-century Renaissance-revival building modeled on the Palace of Monterrey in Salamanca. The Spanish triumphal arch at the Philadelphia Centennial likewise referenced this period, referring in loose terms to such monuments as El Escorial, one of Spain’s most famous examples of sixteenth-­ century architecture. It also referenced the Puerta de Alcalá, built some two hundred years later. Architectural historicism, the conscious and eclectic use of earlier styles in ways ranging from outright replicas to ornamental pastiches applied to buildings of an entirely different type, was employed repeatedly at the fairs. “The early modern period,” explains historian Henry Kamen in his book on Spanish national identity, “became a relevant point of reference because it was, for many, the age when Spain had achieved everything: riches, pride, influence, empire, cultural hegemony. That established an immovable peak, which contrasted with subsequent epochs.”19 A key moment in history mythologized to bolster the state, the century following Ferdinand and Isabella’s unification of the Kingdoms of Aragon and Castile helped consolidate the notion that Spain had existed for centuries as a cohesive nation with a homogenous language, religion, and culture. Sixteenth-century ironwork and photographs of the Royal Armory lent by Spain and placed in display cases along the front and sides of the centennial structure furthered this narrative of Spanish history. Luis Alfonso extended the idea by comparing the portal to the Puerta de Alcalá, the monumental gateway built during the reign of Carlos III as one of the main entrances to Madrid.20 Enlightened Bourbon reforms, like the sixteenth-century accomplishments of the Habsburg kings, suggested a unified nation of order and progress. The Conde de Donadío, commissioner of fine arts and an amateur artist himself, decorated the elaborate structure with a series of painted medallions depicting important Spanish protagonists in the discovery, conquest, and exploration of America. In addition to Isabel la Católica and Christopher Columbus, Hernán Cortés, Francisco Pizarro, Juan Ponce de León, and Hernando de Soto were all included, their likenesses drawn from originals Donadío had studied in Spain. The inclusion of Ponce de León and de Soto is significant, for these men had explored parts of America that by 1876 were part of the continental United States. “Nothing can give a better idea of the enthusiasm which the Spaniards feel in this Exhibition than the fact of this gentleman [Donadío] giving so much time and

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labor that the Spanish department might excel all others in interest, and that the Americans might learn something of the men whose names are written imperishably in the dawning of American history,” explained the New York Times in a report prompted, no doubt, by the commissioner’s active lobbying of the press.21 Donadío’s inclusion of Ponce de León and de Soto directly linked Spain to the history of the country being celebrated at the Philadelphia World’s Fair. Escutcheons representing the various Spanish provinces—both on the peninsula and overseas—provided the arch with a decorative entablature, and above the broken pediment in the center was another painting by Donadío, this one representing “Spain introducing America” to the world’s nations. Here too the Spanish made a strategic choice in their iconography, changing their original plan, described by the Times as “Columbus discovering America,” to “an allegorical painting of Spain withdrawing the curtain that overshadowed the New World.” Columbus was claimed by Italy as well as Spain—the Italian-American community in Philadelphia marked the centennial by sponsoring a marble statue of the explorer resting his hand on a globe—and the personification of Spain linked the events of 1492 more clearly to Spanish achievement than did the multinational figure of the Genoese traveler. Spain, reported the Times, “is determined to make a grand showing before the American nations that in a certain sense are the children of her enterprise and valor.”22 Although the Times qualified the notion of direct parentage (they were only “in a certain sense” the children), López Fabra and Donadío were clearly trying to link Spain not just to Latin America but to the United States as well. López Fabra suggested the same in his memoir, explaining that the arch was “dedicado a la memoria del descubrimiento de América, debido a la nación española,” which translates as “dedicated to the memory of the discovery of America, owed [or thanks] to the Spanish nation.”23 Through his precise choice of words, the commissioner-general made explicit the idea that the United States, as part of America, owed its existence to the Spanish nation. To do this, he relied on the word “debido,” suggesting the idea of debt, something that is owed, and also on the lack of precision in the word “América,” used to refer both to the United States and to the geographic continents of North and South America. Linguistic slippage allowed López Fabra to claim a place for Spain in the host country’s history. It also allowed the citizens of the United States, especially those determined to define their nation as English, to ignore it. Walking through the monumental entrance, visitors were confronted by an overwhelming display of Spanish industrial products, ranging from mineral specimens to ceramic jugs, colorfully painted fans, and Catalan textiles (fig. 8).24 Damascene iron pieces sent by Basque craftsman Plácido Zuloaga, artfully arranged in their own case, made an especially good impression, but Escobar and his compatriots

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Figure 8 Centennial Photographic Company, Main Building—Spain, 1876. Free Library of Philadelphia, Print and Picture Collection, c021899.

otherwise complained about the display, faulting the limited space for an illogical juxtaposition of objects and cases crammed with goods. In addition to the ironwork and photographs displayed in the recesses of the entry arch, Alfonso XII had sent tapestries from the royal factory in Madrid. Based on cartoons prepared by Francisco Goya in the late eighteenth century, they were hung atop draped fishing nets high above the gallery space, perhaps to protect them from dirty hands, perhaps as a way of elevating their importance compared to the objects displayed below, or perhaps because there was simply nowhere else to put them. Produced in the past and representing the country’s artistic patrimony, they were clearly not for sale. Yet

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most of the manufacturers who sent their products from Spain were hoping for new markets. Contradictions like this conveyed mixed messages about Spanish industrial products at the Philadelphia World’s Fair. Spain’s decentralized system of collection led to inconsistent labeling and significant gaps in information about the material on display. Compiling and printing the catalogue in the United States proved to be a nightmare, and the price of objects was frequently missing from the shipping forms, a serious omission for an exhibition of products sent to inspire new sales. To many observers, Spain’s display looked more like a museum—or a cabinet of curiosities—than a moneymaking enterprise. “[The Spanish] departments are fitted up as museums, and offer enormous contrasts to those of almost every other nation, which are fitted up like retail stores,” declared the Times.25 When prices were included, they were ridiculously low. “The exhibition within the [Spanish] court is not a commercial one,” added James McCabe after walking through the grand entry. “There is scarcely an article that has a ready market in this country.”26 A third viewer, after admiring Spain’s tradition, history, and displays, sarcastically told one of the visitors in the Main Building that the patent house in Washington, D.C.—a place that preserved functional new inventions rather than archaic objects with little current use—was the U.S. equivalent to the museums of Spain.27 Damascene work by the Zuloaga family, which did have a (hefty) price attached, was widely admired, but this form of art linked the Spanish again to the East: “In the general design and in the character of its ornamentation this fine work shows how entirely Spanish art retains the traditions of its oriental masters.”28 World’s fairs were supposed to show off high-quality goods produced by modern industry and ready for sale, but many of the Spanish products, and the manner in which they were exhibited, left visitors with the impression that they were viewing the work of a preindustrial nation. The critic for the Atlantic Monthly published perhaps the most caustic review, criticizing “the huge triple portal through which [Spain’s] vacancies are approached.” “Of preposterous size and ugliness,” the reviewer continued, the archway displays “medallion portraits of De Soto, Pizarro, and others who conquered for their country empires of which neither they nor she could keep an inch.” The author went on with a scathing description of the “non-productive countries” of Mexico and the South American republics, concluding with a backhanded compliment: “In all these countries of Spanish or kindred origin, there is a healthy, vigorous artistic vein running through the articles of common use.”29 After putting considerable time, energy, and money into the creation of their exhibit, the Spanish could only have been dismayed by such commentary. López Fabra bit his tongue, but anger over this treatment is abundantly evident in accounts provided by other Spanish visitors at the fair.

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Proud of their agricultural riches, Spanish organizers tried especially hard to show themselves to advantage in Agricultural Hall, where Jordana y Morera supervised construction of a second triumphal arch, this time based on Gothic architectural forms (fig. 9).30 The names of illustrious Spanish botanists and agricultural scientists from the past were painted on the small, lozenge-shaped medallions that capped the intricate tracery of the varnished wood structure, while a crown and the initials of Alfonso XII, the recently restored Bourbon monarch, adorned its center. Kamen identifies universal Catholicism as a second myth of Spanish national identity, arguing that this idea was promoted in the nineteenth century by conservative politicians in Spain who were opposed to the anticlericalism of liberal republicans.31 Medieval architectural forms were appropriate for a Catholic nation and also for the building itself, designed by James Windrim in a neo-Gothic style that made it look like a church. The exterior façades of Agricultural Hall were flanked by towers surmounted by crosses, and the vaulted interior soared upward into a pointed arch. In contrast to its place in the Main Exhibition Building, Spain was given a central location in Agricultural Hall, immediately across the main transept and facing the United States, which occupied half of the building. Still, Spain’s total

Figure 9 Centennial Photographic Company, Vista de la portada del arco de España, 1876. Biblioteca del Palacio Real, Patrimonio Nacional, RB FOT/684 (10202860). Photo © Patrimonio Nacional.

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square footage was less than requested, and also less than what was allocated to France and England. Jammed into this space were more than two thousand exhibits, including chestnuts from Orense, wheat and barley from Badajoz, chickpeas from León, and cheese, honey, many different kinds of olive oil, sugar, sausage, cured eels, and preserved fish. There were also tobacco displays, liquor, and a lot of wine. Despite the tight quarters, this was Spain’s strongest display. Grains, nuts, seeds, and dried beans were placed like relics in a multitude of small glass boxes, stacked upon one another near the entrance and along the sides to create a wall of produce that rivaled, according to Escobar, California’s exhibition of similar products. Bottles of wine ornamented shelves lining the lower registers of the neo-Gothic arch, and casks of Spanish sherry were stacked in pyramids within. The Duchess of Medinaceli sponsored the construction of a rustic pine cabin in which to display resinous products from her peninsular estate. The Philippines sent hemp, and Cuba, which Escobar called “the pearl of the Antilles, coveted by the United States,” sent sugar and tobacco.32 One Spanish visitor in Philadelphia, a man who signed the letters he published in La Iberia “Juliano Philadelpho,” considered the agricultural displays equal in importance to, if not more important than, other exhibitions at the fair. On receiving the program for the Centennial Exhibition’s opening ceremonies, however, he was shocked to learn that U.S. president Ulysses S. Grant would not even visit the agricultural displays. Grant began his tour in Memorial Hall, followed by visits to the Main Exhibition Building and Machinery Hall, where he put the fair in motion by starting the Corliss steam engine. Agriculture was completely ignored, “as if the agricultural arts were not the foundation of society and the principal source of a nation’s richness.”33 For his own part, Spanish commissioner of agriculture Jordana y Morera noted that the agricultural and horticultural buildings had been placed at the far end of the fairgrounds, with Agricultural Hall as far from the main entrance as possible (fig. 10).34 Such design decisions, which decreased the number of visitors to these sectors of the fair, may have been motivated by practical concerns. They also derived from a developing bias in favor of manufactured goods and the machinery that produced them, which placed them higher in the hierarchy than the raw materials from which they were made. Whatever the reasons, the Spanish had expectations different from those of their U.S. hosts in terms of deciding what should be highlighted at the fair. Escobar, who looked closely at Spain’s exhibition in Agricultural Hall, remarked with disappointment upon a recent decline in Cuban production caused by the island’s struggle for independence, which would continue for another two years. Many in the United States supported the Cuban cause, although the government remained officially neutral. Aware of this popular sentiment and possibly still smarting from the Virginius Affair, during which Spain and the United

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States almost went to war over the capture of a U.S. vessel being used to send supplies to the war-torn island, Escobar reprinted a remark made by a reporter for the New York Herald: “if Spain would exhibit a proclamation recognizing Cuba’s Independence, it would receive first prize at the Exposition.” Spain, Escobar responded angrily, rejected this suggestion and proposed instead that the United States consent to ending hostilities so that Cuba could regain its former prosperity and splendor.35 As most Cuban sugar was being shipped directly to the United States, not Spain, by 1876, proximity and economics were stacked strongly against him.36 Judges at the fair sampled the various products before making their decisions, and those responsible for wine had an enviable task. Cigars and cigarettes, displayed in beautifully carved cases, were also popular with the jury. One letter in the Spanish archives reports that a box of Reina Victoria cigars and a second box of Presidentes were removed from the exhibition and given as gifts to the men who examined them. A second letter suggests that other exhibits were less appealing: “Due to the advanced state of putrefaction in which they were found, it has

Figure 10  Plano general de la Exposición Universal de Filadelfia, in Lista preparatoria del catálogo de los expositores de España, y sus provincias de ultramar, Cuba, Puerto Rico y Filipinas; Formada para uso del jurado (Philadelphia: Campbell, 1876).

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been necessary to remove from the exhibition and throw away several platters of preserved sardines belonging to one don Nicolás Mandado of Pontevedra,” reported an official. A second submission, “sent by Vicente Riego Vivero, possibly also from Galicia, although his place of origin has been obliterated on the accompanying label,” was likewise removed from the section.37 Despite occasional packaging problems, however, most of the food sent to Philadelphia was of excellent quality. It was donated to charitable organizations and the poor at the end of the fair.38 The paltry amount of space given the Spanish in Machinery Hall turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for in contrast to Spain’s bountiful agricultural display, the Spanish exhibition there consisted of four lonely objects: a semi­portable steam engine, two drawings of wheels that could draw water from a well, and a fire hose.39 Embarrassed by his country’s feeble presentation in Machinery Hall, Escobar contrasted the noise and movement of the machines presented by the United States, France, and England with Spain’s “immobile, paralyzed, dead” contribution.40 Although Spain showed itself a poor competitor in the mechanical arena, a Catalan industrialist looking for new ways to increase textile production back home found the exhibit of U.S. equipment instructive. José Roca y Galés included several drawings of motorized looms in the book he published about the fair.41 Agustín Urgellés de Tovar, a second visitor from Catalonia, also produced a book about the fair, suggesting that Barcelona could compensate for Spain’s poor performance in Philadelphia by organizing its own international exhibition, in recognition of its status as the most industrialized part of Spain.42 Like the display in Machinery Hall, the selection of Spanish needlework sent to the Women’s Pavilion was likewise insignificant and received little attention from the press.43 Lacking space in the Main Building for its education, science, and military displays, and in need of housing for the soldiers sent to aid the commissioners, Spain paid for and hastily constructed several buildings of its own at the fair. These buildings occupied a sector of ground on the far southwest of the fairgrounds, and visitors passed by them only if they walked the long way around, past the Catholic Total Abstinence Fountain, to see the state pavilions sited at the edge of the fair. The location was out of the way, well suited to soldiers’ private living quarters but failing to attract large numbers of visitors who might be interested in the exhibits inside. Designed by Philadelphia architect Alexander Bary, the Spanish Government Building was a large basilical structure with two side aisles, some one hundred feet in length. Beyond the name above the exterior portals—Spain at one end and España at the other—there was little in the architectural detailing of this wood, steel, and glass structure to suggest the country it was meant to represent. Next door was a small mess hall and the soldiers’ sleeping quarters (fig. 11).44

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Figure 11  Centennial Photographic Company, Vista del parque ferial con los tres edificios construidos por España, 1876. Biblioteca del Palacio Real, Patrimonio Nacional, RB FOT/684 (10202871). Photo © Patrimonio Nacional.

Inside the main edifice were the Spanish exhibits. Cortázar described this as Spain’s “official contribution,” consisting of several stiffly posed mannequins dressed in parade uniforms and a large display of weapons, among them beautifully forged knives and swords from Toledo (fig. 12).45 Light artillery and a few rifles were also on view, but gigantic cannons, such as those exhibited elsewhere by the German munitions fabricator Krupp, were nowhere to be seen. Dominating the building instead were photographs, civil engineering projects, historical maps, and topographical models depicting locations relating to the Napoleonic invasion of 1808–14 and the more recent Spanish-Moroccan War. There were fewer representations of fortifications in Cuba or the Philippines, places about which Spain preferred not to make a large amount of current military information available. The official catalogue failed to itemize the government exhibition, but it did list the extensive collection of educational materials and scientific manuals, sacred music (again lent by the king), designs for engineering projects, and forest products on view in the side aisles of the building.46 Some who frequented the space called it “the House of the King,”47 and a portrait of Alfonso XII, prominently hung amid banners at the end of the hall, proclaimed the eighteen-year-old monarch’s personal interest in and support for Spain’s presence at the fair.

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Figure 12  Centennial Photographic Company, Spanish Government Building—Interior, 1876. Free Library of Philadelphia, Print and Picture Collection, c021632.

The building constructed to house the Spanish soldiers, placed next to the main Government Building, conformed a bit more closely in its exterior decoration to Orientalist expectations about Spain. This centrally planned structure was some fifty feet in diameter, surmounted by a lantern and ornamented with door and window moldings loosely derived from an Islamic architectural vocabulary. The double window divided by an ornamental column, most clearly visible in Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Historical Register, is known as an ajimez (fig. 13). Taking inspiration from Rafael Contreras, who had installed a salón árabe at the Royal Palace of Aranjuez in 1851, and Owen Jones, who re-created the Alhambra’s Court of the Lions in 1854 at the Crystal Palace in Sydenham, architects throughout Europe and America were using a decorative vocabulary derived from Islamic Spain for interior spaces of relaxation, smoking rooms and theaters, for example. It was just this type of environment that was created in Philadelphia’s Horticultural Hall, where tropical plants and bubbling fountains framed by horseshoe arches provided visitors with a pleasurable escape from the hubbub of the fair. Spain was the only nation to send soldiers to the Centennial Exhibition, a move that might have seemed aggressive in light of the conflict in Cuba, just ninety miles from Florida’s coast, but the ornamentation of the Spanish Engineers’

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Pavilion neutralized the potential affront. The building housing Spanish soldiers nodded discreetly toward Spanish military activity in faraway North Africa rather than the nearby Caribbean. The men circulated without weapons, helped guard the exhibits, and cordially greeted visitors who passed by their delicately ornamented home. Like its feeble display of machinery, Spain’s unarmed soldiers, lifeless mannequins, and exotically ornamented home suggested little in the way of threat to U.S. territorial aspirations in the late nineteenth century.

Figure 13  Quarters of the Spanish Corps of Engineers, in Frank H. Norton, ed., Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Historical Register of the Centennial Exposition, 1876 (New York: Frank Leslie’s Publishing House, 1877), 39.

Paintings of High Quality Concerning the American Continent The exhibition of Spanish art at the Philadelphia Centennial, where fairgoers could view the two monumental paintings that sparked Shinn’s divisive comments

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about Spanish paintings of American history, featured an impressive number of grand-manner paintings lent by the government along with an eclectic group of works—including copies and Old Masters—sent independently by artists and collectors hoping for a sale. The Conde de Donadío, Spanish commissioner of fine arts, placed the best works in Memorial Hall and relegated the rest to the annex (fig. 14). Spain’s most commercially successful artists, painters who lived in Paris or Rome like José Villegas, Vicente Palmaroli, Francisco Pradilla, and Martín Rico, refused to send their work to Philadelphia without government support, and viewers hoping to see some of the small, colorful costumbrista scenes (genre paintings depicting bullfighters, flamenco dancers, and others dressed in the traditional clothing of Spain) then becoming popular in international circles were disappointed upon entering the gallery.48 In contrast to other countries, observes Oscar Vázquez, history painting in Spain had seen a dramatic rise in popularity during the 1850s and ’60s, and “was seen as a purely national product.”49 Large, didactic history paintings were favored at the Exposiciones Nacionales de Bellas Artes (the Spanish national exhibitions, founded in 1854 in part to foster Spanish participation at the world’s fairs),50 but historical subjects enjoyed only limited support in the United States. The U.S. art market was still relatively small, and

Figure 14  Centennial Photographic Company, Art Annex—Spanish Paintings, 1876. Free Library of Philadelphia, Print and Picture Collection, c022701.

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landscape and genre painting dominated the annual exhibitions sponsored by the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts and National Academy of Design. Realizing that the Spanish exhibition and U.S. expectations were misaligned, Donadío apologized for the absence of contemporary genre painting, explaining that many artists “declined to send pictures to a country that afforded them no market.” In truth, commercial galleries and importers of European art—Adolphe Goupil, Michael Knoedler, and Samuel Avery among them—had only just begun to bring modern Spanish painting to the attention of collectors in the United States. These dealers purchased their inventory primarily in Paris, and none had yet crossed the Pyrenees to explore the studios of Spain. “Nothing could be more pleasing to the Spanish people and to the Spanish Government, than the opening of a market for Spanish pictures in American cities,” continued the count, and “the assistance and kind offices of the Government will not be wanting to the bold adventurer who makes the attempt.”51 To ensure a cohesive display, the government sent fourteen large paintings from its national collection to augment the exhibition in Philadelphia. Instructions to the director of the Prado specified that the works were to be “of high quality, by living artists, and concerning the American continent.”52 Several of the works chosen, like Puebla’s First Landing of Columbus (plate 1), met these criteria, but other canvases— The Burial of San Lorenzo in the Catacombs of Rome by Alejo Vera (1862), The Death of the Count of Villamediana by Manuel Castellano (1868), and The Insanity of Doña Juana de Castilla by Lorenzo Vallés (1866)—clearly did not. The collection included some of the most celebrated Spanish history paintings produced over the previous two decades, but most were more than ten years old, and many depicted subjects requiring a knowledge of Spanish history beyond that of most viewers at the Centennial Exposition. The gallery was hung in nineteenth-century salon style, from floor to ceiling, with smaller works—landscapes, figure paintings, and Old Masters—placed along the bottom of the wall and in the spaces in between. Of the three paintings in the Spanish exhibition that referred explicitly to the American continent—Eduardo Cano de la Peña’s Christopher Columbus at the Monastery of La Rábida (1856) also depicted a moment in Columbian history— Gisbert’s Disembarkation of the Puritans in America (plate 2) most provoked Shinn’s disapproval. The painting had been commissioned by Miguel Aldama, a prosperous Cuban landowner, who wanted it as a pendant to a second work, depicting Hernán Cortés burning his ships on arrival in Mexico, produced by Francisco Sans Cabot (1863, Palacio del Segundo Cabo, Havana). Together, they were to depict the English and Spanish colonization of America.53 When Aldama’s payment was delayed, Gisbert sold the painting to José María de Salamanca, a wealthy banker from Madrid. Separated from its pendant, Disembarkation of the Puritans was exhibited and awarded a first-class medal in the 1864 National

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Exposition in Madrid, and was exhibited a second time at the 1865 Paris Salon and a third time at the Exposition Universelle of 1867, where it again received an award. Salamanca sent Gisbert’s painting to the Philadelphia Centennial, according to the New York Times, “from the sincere feeling of friendship for America and the Americans which animates so many Spaniards, and has done so ever since the time of Washington Irving’s sojourn in that most interesting land.”54 The Times critic identified the painting as one of the three most important works sent by Spain, but he qualified the choice with faint praise: “Greatly as I admire it, it seems to me more essentially uninspired by the feeling of the old Spanish masters than any other picture in the room, and I therefore do not care to dwell upon it now for that reason.”55 While critics in Spain and France knew that Gisbert was a liberal, known for painting subjects linked to progressive politics,56 reviewers in the United States seemed unable to move beyond their discomfort with the idea that a Spanish artist was painting a founding moment in the English history of the United States. The reasons why Gisbert’s Disembarkation of the Puritans failed to get positive reviews are worth further consideration, especially given that Robert Weir’s Embarkation of the Pilgrims (plate 3) had been installed in the U.S. Capitol in 1843, and that George Boughton’s Pilgrims’ Sunday Morning (1867, New-York Historical Society) was a popular contribution to the U.S. section of the Philadelphia Exhibition. Centennial critics did not differentiate between the Pilgrims, who arrived in Massachusetts on the Mayflower in 1620, and the Puritans, who began settling in the Massachusetts Bay Colony after 1630, nor did they object to Gisbert’s erroneous nomenclature. Weir’s painting was one of four U.S. Capitol paintings that told the history of the United States; two depicted scenes of Spanish exploration and two depicted English settlement. John Vanderlyn was responsible for The Landing of Columbus, William Henry Powell for De Soto Discovering the Mississippi, John Gadsby Chapman for Baptism of Pocahontas, and Weir for the Embarkation of the Pilgrims. The paintings by Weir and Gisbert complement each other well: Weir portrayed the departure of the Pilgrim colonists from Delft Haven for England and then across the Atlantic, and Gisbert their arrival on the Massachusetts shore after their long and arduous journey. Both artists placed a clergyman in the center of the composition, surrounded by men, women, and children in various attitudes of prayer. Although the Bible in Weir’s painting, an important symbol of Protestant faith, is larger than the one held heavenward by Gisbert’s fervent minister, whose dramatic gesture of thanks may have seemed incompatible with his Calvinist faith, such details seem unlikely to have prevented the painting’s embrace during the Colonial Revival. A product of the late nineteenth century, the Colonial Revival was greatly advanced by the 1876 Centennial, which featured, in addition to Gisbert’s painting,

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a “New England Colonial Kitchen,” where women dressed in eighteenth-­century clothing to greet visitors in Philadelphia.57 Ann Uhry Abrams argues that the alternate histories of Jamestown, Virginia, and Plymouth, Massachusetts, placed southern and northern versions of English colonialism in competition with each other during the antebellum period, but that they came together (and stood in contrast to the history of Spanish colonization) in a spirit of reconciliation after the Civil War.58 That said, postwar reconciliation was largely imagined rather than realized, as several southern states refused to participate in the centennial celebration, allowing a northeastern view to predominate over all others.59 Writing about the invention of old New England, historian Dona Brown notes that the creation of the English colonial myth was heavily promoted to middle-class Americans who were “looking for an imagined world of pastoral beauty, rural independence, virtuous simplicity, and religious and ethnic homogeneity.”60 The Colonial Revival proposed a national history in which English-speaking Protestants on the northeastern seaboard, rather than any other Europeans who landed on and colonized what became the continental United States, were the ancestral founders and therefore the inheritors of the nation. A simplified version of history popular in the expanding nation, the Colonial Revival spread down the coast from Massachusetts to Florida (which had passed from Spain to the United States in 1821) and westward toward California, helping citizens forget the existence and contributions of the Spanish, French, and other non-English European settlers who had also founded communities in what had now become the United States, land already inhabited by the Native peoples of the Americas. Spain, for example, established several colonies in the early sixteenth century along the southeastern coast of what would eventually become Georgia and South Carolina; and St. Augustine, in Florida, the oldest continually occupied European site, was founded by the Spanish in 1565, still some fifty years before the arrival of the Pilgrims. Pennsylvanians, who liked to trace their history to the arrival of William Penn in 1682, created their own complementary variation on Anglo-Protestant identity, one that ignored the Swedish who preceded, and the Germans who followed, the English-speaking Quakers.61 Visitors to the centennial fair failed to see the Spanish display as a manifestation of shared interests and, like Shinn, insisted that Spanish artists had no business depicting this moment in U.S. history. Whereas Columbus was a subject molded to fit a number of differing versions of history, essayed by artists on both sides of the Atlantic and in relation to both English-speaking and Spanish-­ speaking America, the arrival of the Pilgrims in Massachusetts was not. Having a Spanish artist render and, by extension, control the interpretation of this moment in Anglo-American history risked complicating the construction of history. Spain had founded the “nonproductive countries” to the south of the United States,

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and Spanish artists should restrict themselves to painting this region of America. Trained by years of Black Legend propaganda to see Spain as a nation of “civil dissension, bad government, and religious intolerance,” as one U.S. observer put it, few possessed direct, deep, or unbiased knowledge of the Spanish peninsula, its history, and its contributions to the United States.62 That more than half of the paintings sent from the national collection depicted religious subjects served only to reinforce the most prevalent of these negative Spanish stereotypes. To the right of and below Gisbert’s painting hung Benito Mercadé’s Passing [the Spanish word Traslación was awkwardly rendered in the catalogue as Translation] of Saint Francis of Assisi (1866), Gabriel Maureta’s Torcuato Tasso Retiring to the Monastery of San Onofre (1864), Antonio Muñoz Degrain’s The Prayer (1871), and José Casado del Alisal’s Last Moments of Don Fernando IV, “el Emplazado” (1860), all sent from the National Museum of Painting and Sculpture. Casado’s painting depicts a medieval Castilian king being summoned (emplazado) to death by two brothers whom he executed earlier in his reign. One “cause of the exclusively religious character which is stamped on the art of Spain,” wrote Shinn with bigoted authority, “was the all-powerful and all-pervading influence of the Inquisition, dwarfing and withering all originality, all invention, all thought that dared to express itself, except in the stereotyped forms permitted to a nation that was held in perpetual leading-strings.”63 Readers of the New York Evening Mail received a similar message. Spain, along with the other “Catholic nations” Mexico, Brazil, and Italy, sent too many devotional subjects to the fair.64 Anti-Catholicism in the United States stretched back to the founding of the English colonies during the Protestant Reformation.65 Exacerbated during the 1850s by the immigration of large numbers of Irish and German Catholics to Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, and by the presence of Spanish-speaking Catholics in the newly annexed regions of Texas and the Southwest, it led to the creation of several reactionary political groups, most notably the Order of the Star-Spangled Banner (the Know-Nothings), which admitted only native-born Protestants to membership. Catholicism, argued nativists, was incompatible with democracy, the absolutist power of the pope a threat to U.S. notions of freedom. Pope Pius IX’s controversial Syllabus of Errors, perceived by some as an attack on modern culture and liberal democracy, heightened suspicions over the course of the 1860s, and the debate about taxpayer support for sectarian education, which returned to public view in the early 1870s, brought these controversies to the fore. The United States was imagined in 1876 as a “Christian nation,” but Catholics were generally excluded from this Protestant conceptual framework.66 Reference to Spain brought to mind other negative thoughts as well. The Insanity of Doña Juana de Castilla, described by one critic as “a fine theme finely studied,” was the most popular painting in the Spanish exhibition (plate 4).67 The

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daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, Juana de Castilla ruled Spain in the early sixteenth century, but Ferdinand conspired to declare his daughter mad and usurp the throne upon the death of her husband. In the painting by Vallés, Juana turns to quiet her advisors, refusing to believe that her beloved husband, Philip, just visible behind the parted curtain, is dead rather than sleeping. This was the painting that U.S. critics liked, even those who, like the critic from the Times, admitted to “complete ignorance of Spanish history.”68 Some equated the internecine battles of the sixteenth century with the Carlist wars of the nineteenth. “In referring to the exhibits of Spain,” wrote J. S. Ingram, another visitor at the fair, “we must not omit to remind our reader that when preparations were being made by foreign nations for our Exhibition, Spain and her people were distracted by civil war, which was followed by a long period of internal dissension, very hurtful to all industrial pursuits.”69 The Ten Years’ War between Spain and Cuba further inflamed anti-Spanish prejudice during the centennial years. Despite attempts by López Fabra and the Conde de Donadío to engage journalists in the United States, negative comments about Spain repeatedly made their way into the popular press during the centennial year. “Whether it be from the near neighborhood of that plague spot, Cuba, or from the bad political rash which breaks out periodically over the face of the mother country,” wrote Donald Mitchell in Scribner’s Monthly, “it is certain that most Americans think of the Spanish as a decrepit nation, incapable of any positive industrial activities.”70 Others, like Harper’s Weekly, made the same point with images. “Our Artist’s Dream of the Centennial Restaurants” provides a classic example of colonialist consumption, applied to the many countries that sent their products to Philadelphia (fig. 15). Two Russians at the lower left corner, one in profile, provide the viewer with entry into the image; a cannibal in an African hut sits immediately above, advertising, among other things, “Diamonds on Toast,” “Natives on the Half Shell,” “Zebra Chops,” and “Elephant à la Stanley.” The right side is similarly populated, with a Chinese vendor selling two caged cats marked “Soup This Day” and a chained “Puppy à la Centennial.” A German beer garden is at top right. The French, given their culinary fame, take center stage, with the English above them, a reminder that negative European stereotypes were used at this time to compensate for feelings of inferiority and the popularity of European products with U.S. consumers.71 A Spanish dancer below and to the right provides a secondary point of entry into the image. Elaborately coiffed in a mantilla and holding a fan and an orange, she moves the eye upward toward her country’s pavilion. There, ceremoniously topped by a fluttering flag with its base in the shape of a crown and a royal coat of arms, Spain’s contributions to the feast are displayed to the public: Spanish mackerel, grapes, olives, lemons, and, of course, a “Cuban Broil” and a “Carlist Stew.”

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Figure 15  Walter F. Brown, Our Artist’s Dream of the Centennial Restaurants, in Harper’s Weekly, July 1, 1876 (supplement), 541.

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History Starts in New Plymouth The myth of perpetual decline following Spain’s moment of empire and greatness, according to Kamen, is among the most enduring in the creation of Spanish national identity.72 While the early modern advances of Ferdinand and Isabella and their grandson Charles I signaled the height of Spanish power, the reigns of Philip II and the Habsburgs in the seventeenth century marked the beginning of a long descent into chaos. With a self-deprecating attitude, Spanish officials were quick to point out their failures in Philadelphia, and Donadío privately conveyed to the head of the Spanish commission several reasons for his exhibition’s poor reception.73 Most of the paintings sent to the United States, aside from those lent by the government and the Marquis de Salamanca, were by little-known artists. Some arrived in poor condition, a number were copies (a version of Velázquez’s Fable of Arachne was hung in the art annex, where most of these secondary works were hung), and several, in the opinion of the art commissioner, were just plain

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bad. The difficulty of sending works of art across the Atlantic was significant. Although both the National Museum and Salamanca agreed to lend their paintings to the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia, the director of the Academia de San Fernando refused, arguing that it would be irresponsible to put his collection at risk and that such exhibitions were for the display of contemporary art, not Old Masters.74 In fact, no other country except Holland showed seventeenth-century paintings at the fair, leading one Spanish official to note that hanging Old Masters next to contemporary art left the distinct impression that “our painting lives only in the past, like the elderly and the displaced.”75 Like the Spanish display of industrial arts, the exhibition of Spanish paintings suggested the museum rather than the marketplace. Although announcements inviting artists to send their work to the centennial fair had been placed in the local newspapers of Spain, there was no peninsular administration of the exhibition. Spain’s most successful artists, those living abroad and closely aligned with the commercial galleries in Paris, did not ship their work to Philadelphia, and Donadío did not know what would be in the show until he unpacked the crates. The small number of awards was proof of Spain’s poor showing, and Donadío spent considerable time battling national bias on the jury to try to increase Spain’s number of fine arts awards after the results were announced.76 Drawing upon this experience, López Fabra explained in his final report that future fine art submissions would have to be juried ahead of time in order to ensure quality.77 Luis Alfonso noted in his capacity as secretary to the Spanish delegation that although Spain had hoped to make a positive impression in Philadelphia—one that would dignify its role as “discoverer of the New World” and strengthen its commercial relations with its former colonies to the south—the exhibition of Spanish fine art was an “embarrassment,” saved only by the paintings sent at the last minute by the National Museum and the Marquis de Salamanca.78 To make a difficult situation worse, these large paintings were improperly packed for return and sustained considerable damage on the way home to Europe.79 If the U.S. response to the Spanish exhibition was disdainful, the Spanish response to the fair, and to the United States, was likewise unenthusiastic. Luis Alfonso contrasted the festivities in Philadelphia to those in Paris in 1867 and Vienna in 1873, finding the U.S.–organized events decidedly lacking. The only foreign head of state at the inauguration of the Philadelphia Centennial, other than President Grant, was Emperor Pedro II of Brazil, and while the 1867 final awards ceremony in Paris had been presided over by Emperor Napoleon III and attended by more than fifteen foreign monarchs, the Philadelphia event was a smallish affair at which even the president of the United States failed to show up. “Now then,” wrote the secretary in disgust, “how does being a powerful republic justify treating such a magnificent event in such a shoddy manner? Was not [this ceremony] worthy

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of the presence of the U.S. head of state, its most important lawmakers, and its most illustrious dignitaries? Did it not demand grandiose staging with a large and imposing audience? Should it not have been marked by more pomp, more circumstance . . . and better music?”80 But Philadelphians, notes centennial historian Bruno Giberti, “came to the Quakerish conclusion that this type of extravagance would not be appropriate for an American fair.”81 U.S. and Spanish expectations were again misaligned. A report produced to provide U.S. organizers with guidelines for the Philadelphia project described the 1873 Vienna World’s Fair as costly and magnificent, but ultimately as inappropriate in a country like the United States. “While we should endeavor to celebrate our nation’s Centennial in a manner worthy of our nation’s dignity,” observed the author, “it is not necessary in order to do so that we should attempt to imitate the grandeur and dazzling beauty of the expositions of the old world, but rather desire to appear for what we really are—a plain, practical and common sense people.”82 Disgust turned to outright anger, however, when Spanish officials spied the Cuban flag at the awards ceremony flying with those of the other sovereign nations being honored at the fair. While López Fabra diplomatically refrained from mentioning this provocation in his memoir, Alfredo Escobar discussed the offense in detail in letters he published in Spain.83 The controversy was defused after Spanish consul Juan Morphy lodged a formal complaint. Making what Escobar considered a feeble excuse, U.S. fair organizers eventually removed the offending banner from the hall. The Spanish continued their criticism of the United States by pointing out that although it was replete with natural wonders and modern technology, it failed dismally in the area of cultural achievement. Kate Ferris, reviewing late nineteenth-­ century Spanish literature about the United States, aptly notes that “the U.S. expertise in science and engineering, were believed to have been achieved at the expense of the arts and literature.”84 The editors of La Ilustración Española y Americana conveyed this idea by including images of sightseers at Niagara Falls and a large plate showing Philadelphia fairgoers admiring the Giant Cataract (Niagara Falls’ technological equivalent in the hydraulic annex of Machinery Hall), along with Escobar’s letters, as part of its coverage from the centennial year.85 The giant Corliss engine in Machinery Hall, the interior of Philadelphia’s Independence Hall, and the Liberty Bell also appeared on the pages of this journal (fig. 16). One double-­page spread paired the image of President Grant starting the Corliss engine on the left with two smaller illustrations, one depicting the Assembly Room in Independence Hall, site of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and the second representing the Liberty Bell, supposedly rung in 1776 to announce this historic event.

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These images are particularly instructive in thinking about religious and political mythmaking in the United States as compared to Spain. In the two illustrations on the right, the artist has placed the subject parallel to the picture plane, such that two columns divide the space of the Assembly Room into a triptych at top, and the Liberty Bell appears as if on an altar behind a wrought iron choir screen (reja) below. With George Washington’s Rising Sun chair and desk in the exact center of the composition at top, the Assembly Room functions as a republican throne room as well as a secular altarpiece. Below, a multiracial group of citizens (the two white boys at left are juxtaposed with an African American family at right) respectfully absorb the singular and universalizing lesson of U.S. history before this iconic symbol of freedom.86 The Corliss engine, too, is elevated on a platform before which the president performs a secular ritual, the opening of the fair.

Figure 16  Exposición Internacional de Filadelfia, in La Ilustración Española y Americana 20 (June 22, 1876): 412.

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At the Philadelphia Centennial, the United States was enshrined as a modern industrial nation that traced its history from the disembarkation of the Pilgrims in 1620 to the Declaration of Independence in 1776. The country’s multinational and layered history was rarely acknowledged, even as foreign visitors like Luis Alfonso recognized the inaccurate nature of this narrative: Whether or not the Venetian merchants Juan and Sebastian Cabot arrived on the North American coast in the name of England four months before Columbus; whether or not the Florentine Verazzani, sailing in the name of France, saw the harbor of New York in 1504; whether or not the Spaniards Ponce de Leon and Fernando de Soto visited Louisiana and Florida on behalf of Spain in the early and middle decades of the sixteenth century; whether or not the English established colonies in Virginia and the French established them in the Carolinas; these events little effect the concrete point of my story, which must only start in New Plymouth on the 22nd of December 1620.87 Fair organizers and the U.S. public preferred straightforward, uncomplicated, easy ways of celebrating their past. Although Columbus was acknowledged as the “discoverer of America,” Spain’s contemporary relevance was kept firmly south of the border; England, the “Madre Patria,” always came first. Charles Stillé, provost of the University of Pennsylvania, told the Spanish commissioners that “Spain is, after England, the nation whose history is best known by educated citizens in the United States.” The Spanish display was impressive, he said, because it came from a nation “so different from our own.”88 Spain was different. Whereas the Spanish, attributing agricultural richness to the stability of kingship and religion, saw themselves as the founders of America and embraced the multiple meanings embodied in this continental term, those in the United States demurred. “Defining America” on the anniversary of the nation’s one-hundredth birthday entailed a process of selection that permitted some European nations to speak and asked others, especially those that might challenge the singular myth of a white, Protestant, English-speaking nation, to remain silent.

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2 Defining (and Defending) Spain in Barcelona and Paris, 1888 and 1889

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n at t r ac t ive young wom an at tir ed in contemporary French fashion leans against the railing of an outdoor restaurant at the Exposition Universelle de Paris (plate 5). A mug of beer, a folded copy of Le Figaro, and a black umbrella slyly suggest the presence of a male companion, and the woman’s gaze directs the viewer past the blue and white dome of the Palace of Fine Arts to a chair outside the painting’s frame on which the missing man may be seated. The Eiffel Tower, with the Palace of Diverse Industries just visible through its base, soars in the background. Behind the tower and within these extraordinary buildings, as within the Pavilion of Spanish Food Products on the Quai d’Orsay, artists, industrialists, and agriculturalists from Spain were presenting their wares. Luis Jiménez Aranda painted Lady at the Paris Exposition in a cosmopolitan academic style, and the woman in tricolor blue, white, and red seems French. But Jiménez Aranda was from Seville, an Andalusian province known outside the Iberian Peninsula as one of the most typically Spanish regions of Spain. Why did he create a painting that looks so French? What should a Spanish painting look like? And how was Spanishness defined and understood, from both inside and outside the borders of the nation? Spain in the late nineteenth century was characterized by political and regional division. Within the country, and on display at the 1888 Exposició Universal in Barcelona, Spanishness was defined in multiple ways. Outside Spain, in Paris as in Philadelphia, rivals took advantage of this diversity, emphasizing, ignoring, and altering those aspects of a conflicted Spanish identity to best serve their needs. The Universal Expositions of 1888 and 1889 took place during the Spanish Restoration, a constitutional monarchy that had placed the teenage son of the deposed queen Isabel II on the throne in 1875, one year before Philadelphia’s Centennial Exhibition. Only seventeen years of age, Alfonso XII began his reign

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with the Spanish empire engaged in a protracted war against Cuban independence and a renewed Carlist challenge to the Spanish order of succession. Catalonia and the Basque Country were especially compromised by these conflicts, stoking long-standing antagonism toward the central government in Madrid. The Cuban crisis caused businesses in the industrialized north to falter, and Carlos VII, the Carlist pretender, who pledged support for local laws, customs, and language rights, courted these regions of Spain. Antonio Cánovas del Castillo, a conservative politician who became the Restoration government’s first prime minister, was the chief architect of the constitution of 1876, which restored the Spanish monarchy. He also resolved an ongoing conflict between Conservative and Liberal factions through the creation of a system known as the turno pacífico (peaceful turn), a plan by which the two parties agreed to manage elections and peacefully hand over power on a regular basis. Cánovas usually served as prime minister when the Conservatives were in power, and Práxedes Mateo Sagasta served for the Liberals.1 A negotiated compromise, the turno pacífico provided a short-term solution to a long-term dispute over tradition, modernity, and the nation’s many volatile differences. If the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial provided the United States with an opportunity to invent itself as “America,” the Barcelona and Paris Expositions—held one year apart, the first within the borders of the nation and the second next door—served as a means by which Madrid’s Restoration government sought to define and defend its notion of Spain. The various constituencies proposing this definition were not in complete agreement, however. The historian Carolyn Boyd contrasts countries like France and the United States, with strong, consolidated educational systems that enabled a unified historical narrative, to the situation in Spain. There, “a weak oligarchic state, a fragmented and inadequate system of mass schooling and a divided political class produced a situation in which national history and identity were contested by groups seeking to capture and strengthen the state.”2 Liberals promoted common rights, freedoms, and responsibilities, while Conservatives saw Catholicism and monarchy as a means of retaining power and stability. In addition, a single notion of Spain was challenged by nationalists in Catalonia, the Basque Country, and other regions that proposed separate identities based on distinct linguistic, cultural, and historical traditions. The Spanish empire began to collapse in the nineteenth century. Whether it would remain an empire, or even a consolidated nation, and how its regional linguistic and cultural diversity would or could be managed, were contested political concerns. Strong regional identities may not always imply weak national ones,3 but cosmopolitanism, hybridity, and the increased mobility of Spanish citizens—including artists like Jiménez Aranda—were certainly making circumscribed and unilaterally homogenous notions of national identity less viable.

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The monarchy, moreover, was not healthy. Eager to produce an heir, Alfonso XII married his cousin shortly before his twenty-first birthday, but the young queen died only five months into the union. The king quickly remarried, and María Cristina of Austria, great-granddaughter of Habsburg emperor Leopold II, soon gave birth to two daughters. She was pregnant with the couple’s third child when Alfonso XII died of tuberculosis in 1885; the king had not yet turned twenty-­eight. With the birth of a son, María Cristina became queen regent of Spain. Alfonso XIII, the future king, was just two years old at the inauguration of the Exposició Universal de Barcelona; the Exposition Universelle in Paris opened one year later, when he was just three. The two fairs were not precisely parallel. The Barcelona Exposition was relatively small, a private enterprise organized by a group of Catalan businessmen rather than a national celebration administered by the central government. Invitations to an international world’s fair were usually issued through diplomatic channels, but no such protocol was followed in the case of Barcelona.4 Whereas London, Paris, and even Philadelphia could claim to speak for England, France, and the United States, Barcelona was neither the capital nor the geographical center of the Kingdom of Spain. The Catalan vision of Spain, moreover, differed significantly from the one imagined by the central government in Madrid. These tensions and their manifestation in Barcelona and Paris are the subject of this chapter.

An Exposició Universal in the Ciutat Comtal Eugenio Serrano de Casanova, who had been with the Spanish delegation in Philadelphia, is credited with the idea that Barcelona should sponsor a fair of its own.5 Born in Galicia, Serrano settled in Barcelona in 1885 and requested permission to use the Parc de la Ciutadella as the site for his enterprise. Barcelona offered easy access by rail to both Madrid and the French border, and the region’s large textile and industrial sector made the city a promising location for Spain’s first international exposition. Serrano soon found the project beyond his organizational capacities, however, and he prevailed upon Barcelona’s mayor, Francesc Rius i Taulet, to take over the project. Originally scheduled to open in October 1887, the fair was rescheduled for the summer of 1888. Rius i Taulet became president; Manuel Girona, founder of the Bank of Barcelona, was named royal commissioner-­ general; José Jordana y Morera, head of the agricultural display in Philadelphia, became his secretary; Francisco (Francesc) López Fabra, who had served as royal commissioner at the Philadelphia Centennial, was named president of the jury; and Álvaro de la Gándara, who had been responsible for industry, served as one of the secretaries.6 Many of the organizers of the Exposició Universal had participated in the Philadelphia World’s Fair; it was a small network of powerful men who controlled the cultural practice of ordering the world.

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Rius i Taulet, who was loyal to the Liberal Party, prevailed upon the government in Madrid to support the Barcelona project with a loan of two million pesetas, to be repaid from receipts at the fair. Agreeing to the request, Prime Minister Sagasta probably hoped to gain support for the creation of a unified Spanish civil code, which would abrogate local laws and traditions, and to lessen friction caused by Madrid’s lowering of tariffs.7 Catalonia’s economic prosperity was dependent upon access to markets in the rest of Europe and America—especially in the remaining colonies of Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines—and the loss of Spain’s protective tariff system was bad for Catalan business. Rius i Taulet saw the fair as a way to open up discussion of Barcelona’s relationship to Madrid, whereas others, especially Catalan nationalists such as Valentí Almirall and members of the Centre Català, were deeply opposed to any collaboration with the central government.8 Consensus over whether and how to sponsor an international exhibition in Barcelona was hard to come by in 1888. The Parc de la Ciutadella, chosen as the site for the exposition, likewise brought contentious issues to the fore. A vibrant neighborhood northeast of Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter, the area had been razed after the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14) in retaliation for Catalan resistance to the ascension of Philip V, the first Bourbon king of Spain, and a large fortress—the Ciutadella—was constructed on the site to serve as a prison.9 Urban planner Ildefons Cerdà developed the Eixample, a modern expansion of gridded streets to provide more light, improved circulation, and better sanitation for the city’s inhabitants, in the 1850s. The citadel itself was destroyed after the Glorious Revolution of 1868, and the area was transformed into a public park during the course of the 1870s: a large fountain and a lake for boating were created to provide the population with attractive leisure space near the heart of the city. Development of the area continued into the 1880s.10 An equestrian sculpture of General Joan Prim, a Catalan hero of the Revolution of 1868 who had been assassinated in 1870, was erected within the park shortly before the opening of the fair, and a monumental statue of Christopher Columbus was installed nearby. The statue, placed on a column some 130 feet high, commemorated the fact that Columbus reported to the Catholic Monarchs in Barcelona after his first voyage to America. The plan for the exposition featured a large semicircular Palace of Industry at the east end of the park (fig. 17); Barcelona’s manufacturing strength made this, not surprisingly, the most important building at the fair. Visitors entered the exposition from the west through a ticket office housed in the monumental Arc de Triomf. They then walked down a long outdoor promenade known as the Saló de Sant Joan, past the Palace of Fine Arts and the café-­restaurant, designed by Lluís Domènech i Montaner. Continuing east, they saw the Hivernacle and the Umbracle, constructed earlier to house exotic trees and plants, the Museu Martorell,

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a small church, and two temporary buildings devoted to the Spanish colonies, before arriving at the Palace of Industry. Maritime displays were mounted in another temporary pavilion designed by Antoni Gaudí for the Compañía Trasatlántica, further east and across a viaduct on land borrowed for the fair. Elsewhere, both in the park and on borrowed land next door, were other structures dedicated to agriculture, the sciences, and machinery. Small temporary buildings and kiosks were also erected within the grounds by private companies such as Audouard y Compañía, which, as the Centennial Photographic Company had in Philadelphia, held the exclusive right to document the fair.11 Viewers unable to visit Barcelona in person could make the journey with the aid of Audouard’s photographs, which were readily available for purchase and often bound into albums.12 The first photograph usually depicted the Arc de Triomf, a purpose-built structure designed by Josep Vilaseca in classical architectural form overlaid by Mudéjar features (fig. 18). Many triumphal arches, which traditionally welcomed conquering generals back from their battles, had been erected during the Roman Empire, and the Iberian Peninsula possesses rich architectural remains from the Roman period of its history. Workers in Barcelona discovered remnants of an ancient Roman temple dedicated to Hercules in the mid-­nineteenth ­century; a spectacular Roman aqueduct crosses the main square of Segovia today; and the city of Mérida still uses its Roman theater to host a classical theater series every summer. Vilaseca employed the traditional Roman form of an arch framed by columns, with an attic story above, but unlike the Romans, he faced the structure with decorative brickwork rather than marble.

Figure 17  Plano general, in Juan Valero de Tornos, Guía ilustrada de la Exposición Universal de Barcelona, de la ciudad, de sus curiosidades y de sus alrededores (Barcelona: Grau, [1888]).

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Figure 18  Audouard y Ca., Arc de Triomf, 1888. Arxiu Fotogràfic de Barcelona, Album AFB4-210, 1.

Like his friend Domènech, Vilaseca hoped to develop a unified architectural style for Spain. These architects, historian Stephen Jacobson points out, “believed that architecture should serve nationalistic ends.”13 In a famous essay of 1878, Domènech had advocated combining multiple historical styles, including the Roman, the Mudéjar (developed by Muslim craftsmen working under Christian rule), and the Romanesque, into a modern national one.14 Taken as a whole, writes

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Jacobson, the “designs, colours and materials [of the Arc de Triomf] paid homage to past and present, Catalonia and Spain, north and south, and celebrated peninsular unity.”15 The exposed brick ornamentation superimposes on the arch a reference to the Muslim rulers who entered Spain from North Africa during the Middle Ages, resulting in a structure that references southern, central, and even western Spain, all brought together in the northeastern industrial city of modern Barcelona. Readily recognized by contemporary critics, this hybridity of style promoted a message of national unification at the fair.16 The iconography of the arch speaks further to this theme, while also subverting Madrid’s position as the national capital.17 Heraldic shields symbolizing each of the forty-nine provinces of Spain adorn the voussoirs, with a slightly larger crest representing Barcelona—the only province that appears twice—in the keystones at front and back. Horizontal attic friezes represent the “Concurrence of the Nations at the Universal Competition” on one side and “Allegory of the City of Barcelona Thanking the Nations for their Attendance” on the other. Smaller friezes, representing the “Apotheosis of Agriculture, Industry, and Commerce” and the “Apotheosis of the Sciences and the Arts,” adorn the short ends of the structure. Winged victory figures stand at the apex of the eight engaged columns that flank the entranceway, leading the eye upward toward crown-shaped ornaments at the top. The crowns offer viewers two divergent readings, inviting them to choose whichever interpretation best fits their ideological stance: they might refer to Barcelona’s status as Ciutat Comtal, a city ruled from the ninth century on by Catalan counts independent of Castile, or they could celebrate the restored Bourbon monarchy, current rulers of the unified Kingdom of Spain. Indeed, the arrival of María Cristina with two-year-old Alfonso XIII to inaugurate the exposition on May 20, 1888, was one of the most remarked-upon events at the fair. The three-week visit was covered closely by the press, with periodicals in Barcelona and Madrid publishing photographs and sketches of the opening events. Although photographers were beginning to shorten exposure times, artists were still providing drawings of events that the camera could not yet capture.18 The official journal of the fair, La Exposición, for example, published a drawing of the queen regent and her toddler son traveling in an open carriage through one of the several temporary triumphal arches erected in honor of the opening (fig. 19). The future monarch radiates light, his white outfit contrasting brightly with the black mourning dress of his mother, on whose lap he is seated. Two coachmen drive the trotting horses, and mounted guards line the street to create a protective barrier between the royal family and the general populace. In addition to processions like this one, the fair opened with a Te Deum in the cathedral, an international parade of ships in the harbor, and a prize of fifteen hundred pesetas to each child born to a poor family on the day of the fair’s opening.19 In a nod toward yet

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Figure 19  Llegada á Barcelona de S. M. la Reina Regente, in La Exposición: Órgano Oficial 51 (May 27, 1888): 3.

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another contentious issue in Catalonia, the amount awarded was equal to that required to purchase exemption from military service demanded by Madrid. The high point of the inaugural ceremonies, recorded in both drawings and photographs, occurred with the royal family seated on a podium in the Grand Salon of the Palace of Fine Arts. This cavernous space, holding several thousand people, had a balcony for observers and a monumental organ at one end. Audouard’s photograph, which was reproduced in La Exposición and in La Ilustración Española y Americana, shows a view from the balcony, offering an elevated perspective on the ceremony (fig. 20).20 The composition incorporates an emphatic white diagonal line that leads the viewer’s eye from the lower right corner toward the center, where the toddler king, dressed in white, is seated on a throne, his nurse standing ready beside him. María Cristina sits next to her son, and the boy’s two older sisters are seated on cushions below. Representatives from participating

Figure 20  Aspecto general del Salón de Fiestas del Palacio de Bellas Artes, durante la ceremonia inaugural (after a photograph by Audouard y Ca.), in La Ilustración Española y Americana 32 (May 30, 1888): 341.

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Figure 21  El Excmo. Sr. Presidente del Consejo de Ministros, en nombre de S. M., declara abierto el concurso (after a drawing by Juan Comba), in La Ilustración Española y Americana 32 (May 30, 1888): 343–44.

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nations—members of the queen regent’s Austrian royal family among them—are also present, as are leading politicians from Barcelona and Madrid. Mayor Rius i Taulet represented Catalonia’s capital city and Prime Minister Sagasta represented the nation. Sagasta had the honor of opening the exhibition to the public. Not content with reproducing Audouard’s photograph, La Ilustración Española y Americana also published a second image of the inauguration, drawn expressly for the occasion by Juan Comba García (fig. 21). Comba was the official graphic artist of the Restoration period, responsible for accompanying Alfonso XII and, after his death, the queen regent and royal family on their travels. He was fascinated by photography, purchased his first camera in the early 1880s, and frequently used photographs as an aid to illustration.21 Both photograph and drawing emphasize the veracity of the view: Audouard’s image is labeled “From a photograph by Audouard and Company, official concessionaires,” and Comba’s is captioned “Drawing from nature, by Comba.” Although details suggest that Comba had the photograph available when creating his version of the ceremony—notice the arm

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and leg positions of figures seated in both of the images—artists rarely acknowledged that they had used photographs as aids to drawing. Photography had the advantage of supplying a chemically produced trace of reality, while drawings could increase legibility, heighten narrative, and augment ideological messaging. Whereas the photographer has emphasized the vast space of the salon and the mass of people in attendance, Comba has zeroed in on the scene to allow viewers a more personal experience of the event. Indeed, the two views differ in that the photograph includes the just visible figure of a statesman on the left side of the podium, either Rius i Taulet or Manuel Girona, reading with his back to the viewer one of the elegant speeches directed at the queen; Comba, in contrast, depicts Sagasta facing the audience and declaring the Universal Exposition open. Close examination reveals another telling enhancement. Both of the royal guards who stand at the front of the crowd, separating the royal family and elected officials from the public, hold aloft an imposing ceremonial axe. The halberds are barely visible in the photograph, but Comba has emphasized them in his drawing by moving in closer and depicting the weapons against the empty ground of the podium. One guard holds the shaft of the halberd in perfect alignment with the center of the composition, split by the magazine’s double-page spread, and the other provides a visual counterpoint to the figure of the prime minister on the left. Sagasta and the guards stand together in defense of the monarchy and, by extension, of the values and political structure of a unified Spain. Comba made drawings of other royal acts and inaugural events as well. Two dramatic night scenes record Barcelona’s modern electric lighting, spotlights, and fireworks illuminating a military parade and maritime celebration, and later in the same issue of La Ilustración Española y Americana, a series of drawings record the queen regent’s pilgrimage to the Monastery of Montserrat, the holiest site in Catalonia (fig. 22). The final image superimposes what appear to be photographic “snapshots” of chatting guards (in the circular frame at top right) and the Gothic cloister (in the tilted rectangle at center), atop drawings of the municipal band performing in the monastery’s patio and María Cristina seated sidesaddle and holding a parasol, making her way up the mountain toward the Cave of the Virgin. Early prints produced by preloaded Kodak cameras were circular, like the snapshot at top right of the illustration, and Comba, by tilting his rendering of the cloister and providing it with a trompe l’oeil shadow below its white edge, has playfully brought together photography and drawing. The image as a whole functions like a page from a Victorian album, with memories of different parts of the journey leading organically from one to the next. Snatches of conversation, an architectural detail, and even the guard who carefully steadies the queen regent’s sturdy mount by placing his hand on its rump, fade, come into focus, and otherwise coalesce into a meaningful narrative for readers who casually leaf through

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Figure 22 Visita de S. M. la Reina Regente al Real Monasterio de Montserrat (after a drawing by Juan Comba), in La Ilustración Española y Americana 32 (June 15, 1888): 384.

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the pages of the journal. Spain, according to the official narrative, sanctioned by Madrid, was a constitutional monarchy, with a devoutly Catholic queen regent raising her son to take the reins of a unified nation.

Producing Fine Art for an Industrious People In addition to hosting the inauguration ceremony, the Palace of Fine Arts housed the various collections of fine and applied arts exhibited at the fair. The exhibition of tapestry, furniture, armor, and fine art from the royal collection, which had been nationalized with the Revolution of 1868, included Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights (1500, Museo Nacional del Prado) and The Haywain Triptych (1512–15, Museo Nacional del Prado).22 The Sección Arqueológica, installed on the ground floor, likewise included an impressive collection of historical objects.23 Contemporary paintings and sculptures were displayed in the Palace of Fine Arts as well, but most visitors were disappointed by the absence of work by foreign artists; only Belgium, France, and Germany sent work to this section of the fair. The French exhibition, with slightly more than two hundred paintings, was the largest of the foreign displays, but recognizable names were hard to find. Belgium sent just under one hundred paintings, and Germany fewer than ten. The United States was represented by a single work of art; the painting Por Teléfono (ca. 1889, location unknown), by Henry Bacon, apparently took as its subject this new medium of communication, strengthening the link between the United States and technology. Whereas the 1887 National Exhibition held in Madrid had contained some two thousand paintings by fifteen hundred artists, the 1888 Barcelona fair contained only 646 works by a total of 349 exhibitors.24 Organizational difficulties, lack of time, insufficient publicity, and a competing art exhibition in Munich were given as reasons for the poor showing.25 A lack of experience on the part of organizers in Barcelona added to the problem, for artists were initially informed that they would have to pay for whatever space they required, a common practice for commercial displays but not for fine art. The Cercle Artístic, dedicated to promoting the arts in Barcelona, successfully negotiated an exemption for artists, but many stayed away nonetheless. José Canalejas, minister of development in Sagasta’s Liberal government, arranged at the last moment to have eight large canvases sent from the national museum in Madrid. All were recent works painted in the 1880s, and most, like José Garnelo’s Death of Lucano (1887, Museo Nacional del Prado) and Antonio Muñoz Degrain’s Lovers of Teruel (1884, Museo Nacional del Prado), were history paintings that had been awarded prizes at the national exhibitions. Five of the eight paintings were death scenes. Photographs of the Spanish paintings in the Palace of Fine Arts show these dramatic canvases in a typical

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Figure 23  Paul Audouard, Palau de Belles Arts: Secció espanyola de pintures, 1888. Arxiu Fotogràfic de Barcelona, Album AFB4-210, 10.

salon-style display, anchoring the walls of the gallery and surrounded by portraits of Catalan dignitaries, landscapes, genre paintings, and still lifes (fig. 23). The allegorical rendering Flora by José Casado del Alisal (1879, private collection) was submitted at the last moment by a private collector. Disappointment led some to caricature this and other paintings in the Catalan press.26 Critics complained about the gallery’s cramped installation, poor light, and lack of a dedicated catalogue to help visitors know what they were viewing.27 The general catalogue produced for the fair, almost one thousand pages in length, employed an unusual organizational system and was difficult to navigate. While world’s fair catalogues usually list each country’s products together, including those of the host nation, in Barcelona the paintings from Spain (and all Spanish exhibits, for that matter) were categorized by province. To compile a complete listing of the Spanish paintings exhibited in Barcelona, readers had to look through all forty-nine provincial sections of the catalogue; additional works were listed in a supplementary section at the end. Mixed messages prevailed. On one hand, the unusual organization emphasized the contribution of each province to the nation, with all the parts working together to produce the whole. On the other, it suggested fragmentation, the distinct characteristics of each province held together in only the most tenuous manner. The Spanish galleries themselves were hung by nation, without regard to region. Organizers in Barcelona engaged in a complicated

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Figure 24  Josep Lluís Pellicer, official poster for the 1888 Exposició Universal in Barcelona, reproduced in La Exposición: Órgano Oficial 1 (August 27, 1886), frontispiece.

balancing act, negotiating their position in relation to Madrid, to the other regions of the nation, and to the other countries participating at the fair. Submissions by foreign artists—Belgian, French, and German in the case of painting—­were listed in the catalogue and hung in the galleries by nation, as usual. Reviews by two art professionals—José Luis (Josep Lluís) Pellicer and Josep Yxart—illuminate other issues in play. Both critics emerged in the context of La Renaixença, a cultural movement that promoted the revival of Catalan language,

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literature, and the arts.28 Pellicer, who had studied drawing and painting in Barcelona and Rome, was active in republican politics and supported the recognition of Catalan rights, but he stopped short of endorsing separation from the Spanish nation.29 He is best remembered as a graphic artist, and he worked as an illustrator for a diverse range of journals, from the mainstream La Ilustración Española y Americana to the Catalan satirical journal La Esquella de la Torratxa. In 1888, he served on the Universal Exposition’s committee in charge of installation, and he also created the official poster for the Barcelona fair (fig. 24). Pellicer’s poster features the Gothic doorway that had served from the fifteenth century as the entry to Barcelona’s Casa de la Ciutat (city hall).30 Tucked away around the corner from the neoclassical façade that now serves as the building’s main entrance, the ancient portal recalls the early days of self-governance in Catalonia. Through this archway the citizens of Barcelona entered the Saló de Cent (Hall of One Hundred) to administer the business of the city. The doorway is surmounted by a semicircular arch, its shape visually reinforced by stone voussoirs that lead upward toward a pointed keystone, above which are three lozenge-­shaped crests. At top is a winged archangel, which Pellicer transformed for the poster into the figure of victory. He also altered the proportions of the façade, exaggerated its verticality, and ornamented it with red and yellow banners, the traditional colors of Catalonia, along with medallions celebrating mining, shipping, commerce, education, agriculture, and industry. A two-dimensional flatness aligns the poster with medieval revivalism and Catalan modernisme,31 tempered at the bottom by two classical female personifications—one holding a drawing board and the other with palette and brushes—who flank the white marble statue of a male worker, sleeves rolled up and sledgehammer in hand. “Labor Prima Virtus,” a Latin maxim associating hard work with success, adorns the base of the sculpture and provides a motto for the fair. The Catalans, proclaims the poster, are an industrious people. Pellicer’s review of painting at the fair appeared as part of a series of conference presentations delivered at the Ateneo Barcelonés (Ateneu Barcelonès) the following year. He began his comments by expressing disappointment in the display and then delivered a brief lesson in art history, linking that history to the small number of artists exhibiting at the 1888 Exposition. Spain was home to four different schools of painting, based in Madrid, Seville, Valencia, and Barcelona, and there were two international destinations for their artists, Paris and Rome. None of the international artists had sent work to the fair, however, and most of the artists from Madrid, Valencia, and Seville had likewise failed to participate. The largest number of works came from artists in Barcelona, a region in which the development of art had been interrupted by fighting against the “absolutism of the first Bourbon King [Philip V]” and only began to flourish in the nineteenth century with the

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professionalization of the School of Fine Arts in Barcelona and the funding of pensions for young artists to study in Rome.32 The modern system of art galleries and exhibition had arrived late; the Sala Parés, one of the most active commercial spaces in the city, was only established in 1877, and government-­sponsored exhibitions were not held in Barcelona until after the Exposició Universal.33 Although some attributed the slow progress of art in Barcelona to the city’s “indifference to the arts, and its exclusive preoccupation with mercantile and industrial concerns,” Pellicer disputed this view: It has now become commonplace to claim that the Fine Arts cannot exist in a positivist climate of industrial and commercial activity. But even without returning to the age of antiquity or to the Middle Ages in Catalonia, without reference to the Italian republics [of the Renaissance], one need only look to Paris, London, and the United States of America to find evidence to the contrary. Is not Paris an industrial and mercantile capital? Is not London the first port of Europe and a center of production for all manner of industry? And yet Paris is the artistic center of the world and the English School in London produces artistic work that we cannot match.34 With a final rhetorical question—“Have the Japanese stopped being artists since becoming industrious and business-oriented?”—Pellicer made a strong plea for the promotion and support of fine art in his native city. If France, England, and the United States could surmount their reputations as industrialized nations, why not the Catalans? Pellicer was aligned with the progressive branch of the Catalan art scene, which viewed the Barcelona school as distinct from Madrid. Josep Yxart, author of a s­ econd substantive review of painting at the fair, likewise promoted artists who were moving away from Madrid’s academic romanticism and toward a realist aesthetic. The two modes, according to the art historian Eliseu Trenc Ballester, must be seen in the context of competition between the two cities. Whereas the art establishment in Madrid during the 1880s was focused on grand-manner history painting, costumbrismo, and casacones (historical genre painting in which artists depicted their figures in eighteenth-century frockcoats, or casacas), Catalan artists and collectors were moving toward plein air landscape and the painting of everyday life.35 Some saw the work produced in Barcelona as more strongly affiliated with Paris than with the Spanish capital.36 The government in Madrid, which awarded and purchased works of art from the national exhibitions, usually acquired subjects that reinforced a grand historical narrative aligned with its political stance, while Catalan businessmen preferred to buy smaller paintings, positivist

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works associated with science and progress, or, conversely, with nostalgia for the preindustrial land, to hang in their homes.37 Art in Catalonia was becoming, in some respects, more French and less Spanish. Yxart took a slightly sarcastic tone in his review of the Spanish galleries at the 1888 Exposition. The large paintings from Madrid were lacking: “Many undeniably display talent and soul; almost all possess first-rate fragments and qualities, but . . . dare we say it? . . . Far from causing true emotion, they leave us cold.” They were histrionic, overly theatrical, and lacked the kind of sincerity that appealed to modern viewers. Their subjects, no longer in vogue, displayed little originality. They tended toward the bizarre and the pompous and were not drawn from nature.38 Yxart preferred the landscapes, submitted by artists from Barcelona who painted the mountains and sea of their native Catalonia. Curiously, he did not mention the several Catalan painters—among them Joan Planella i Rodríguez and Romà Ribera i Cirera, both of whom received gold medals—who were beginning to specialize in everyday life.39 Planella submitted The Child Worker (plate 6), a depiction of a little girl operating one of the enormous textile looms from which Catalan industrialists derived their income,40 and Ribera sent several images of fashionable young women leaving a ball, wives, or perhaps daughters, of these same wealthy factory owners. Yxart ignored the social injustices caused by industrialization in Catalonia that were highlighted by this odd juxtaposition of subjects and awards. Rather, he aimed his criticism at the paintings from Madrid, finding them poorly drawn and garish in color. Yxart’s linking of draftsmanship to Catalan nationalism and his disdain for painterly technique suggest ambivalence about centralization and the Restoration government. Battles over the supremacy of line versus color go back several centuries in the history of art. French theorists argued in the seventeenth century that an appreciation of drawing required a refined education, whereas color communicated through emotion and transcended class hierarchies. Charles Le Brun, in the words of historian Aaron Wile, understood painting “to have its end not in color, its material base, but in dessein, the principle of design and drawing. Domain of the mind rather than the hand, dessein lifted painting beyond labor and into the realm of reason and thought.”41 Color and paint had their own defenders in the eighteenth century, but the upheavals of the French Revolution and the neoclassical style of Jacques-Louis David brought draftsmanship back into vogue. Line became linked to France, republican values, and the dissolution of monarchy. The history of Spanish art, for its part, manifested a strong propensity toward a painterly approach. Diego Velázquez and Francisco de Goya, both of whom worked with a brush fully loaded with paint, defined Spanish realism and the portrayal of Spanish royalty. Whereas French painters valued firm contours, ideal

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forms, and a high degree of finish, painters in Spain, where classicism took only a tenuous hold, emphasized color and paint. Artists and critics in Barcelona saw Paris as a politically attractive alternative to Madrid, one that suggested autonomy and promoted an identity distinct from that of Castilian Spain.42 If the Catalans were industrious, then the Castilians, responsible for the ruinous war in Cuba and determined to battle both Carlists and regional independence, were bellicose. Catalan artists, in response, began to align themselves and their work with French realism rather than with realism as defined by Madrid. Several specific controversies pitted Catalan nationalism against the Restoration government during the 1888 Universal Exposition. Members of the Centre Català, representing the most radical wing of the nationalist movement, became angry when the dates for the Jocs Florals (Floral Games), a traditional celebration of Catalan literature restored to prominence during La Renaixença, were changed so that the queen regent could preside over them.43 They went so far as to boycott the games and hold a rival competition. The Lliga de Catalunya, a less militant group, did participate in the games, but its leaders presented María Cristina with a petition complaining about Madrid’s treatment of the Catalan people. The “Missatge a la Reina Regent” (Message to the queen regent) reiterated a request that had been made to Alfonso XII, shortly before his death, calling for “home rule; the conservation of Catalan civil law; the recognition of Catalan as an official language; and the ‘Catalanization’ of the civil service, judiciary and teaching corps.”44 The impact of these several acts of defiance was slight in 1888, but such demands, notes Jacobson, soon “came to form the cornerstone of the Catalanist movement.”45 The recently widowed queen regent was, in fact, fairly well liked in Barcelona. While satirical magazines such as La Esquella de la Torratxa—the title translates loosely as “The Little Cowbell in the Little Tower”— relentlessly ridiculed Barcelona’s mayor and the pretensions of the fair, they contained few derogatory remarks about María Cristina. Comprising popular news, poetry, jokes, and illustrations, several of them by Pellicer, La Esquella de la Torratxa was published in Catalan at a time when the Barcelona press was almost entirely Castilian. When María Cristina did appear in its pages, she was a figure with whom readers could sympathize. At the close of the fair, the journal printed one of its few representations of the queen regent, clothed in the traditional mourning gown that she wore at formal events (fig. 25). The mayor and his friends have played a practical joke, pasting a large piece of paper marked “deficit” on the back of the poor lady’s skirt. With head bowed and government loan in hand, she walks sadly away from the Palace of Industry, leaving the men behind to laugh and drink champagne. The caption makes it clear that she will be wearing the hoax for a very long time.46

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Figure 25  La Llufa del Ajuntament, in La Esquella de la Torratxa 10 (December 29, 1888): 821.

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Whether Spain’s Restoration government could manage its fragmented nation remained a question in 1888. Jacobson argues that while the fair temporarily unified the country, it ultimately resulted in greater division, and he concludes that “in the 1890s, the spirit of liberal Spanish nationalism would quickly lose ground to ascendant Catalan nationalism in Barcelona.”47 Spain’s other regions were developing differentiated identities as well. Even Andalusia, the region that foreigners identified as the most quintessential part of Spain, began to develop what Eric Calderwood calls a “peripheral nationalism.”48 Whereas Catalan nationalism depended upon racial purity and linguistic difference, andalucismo was based on

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an imagined mestizaje derived from the racial and cultural mixing of the Spanish and Muslim peoples. Regional nationalisms developed as much in the context­ of a transperipheral dialogue as from a response to centralist Madrid. Spanish identities were multiple; they coexisted, came into conflict, and sometimes reinforced one another.49 Indeed, the Spanish spoke with multiple voices and in multiple languages at the Barcelona fair. They spoke among themselves, and they spoke across the provincial and national divide. They also tried to speak outside the borders of their complicated nation, where the subtleties of Spanishness were less readily perceived.

Spain at the Exposition Universelle de Paris “The most notable foreign exhibition in Barcelona,” wrote Carlos Frontaura in La Ilustración Española y Americana, “has been without a doubt the French. . . . The French have participated in the Barcelona competition and its celebration of Spanish industry with more enthusiasm and greater willingness than any other nation. In truth, France has no reason to envy the rest of the world. The neighboring Republic works with passion and to perfection, deserving as a result the admiration of all who love true progress. Without doubt, the exhibition that will be celebrated in France next year will be the marvel of all marvels. The French are masters of the Exposition.”50 The Exposition Universelle de Paris, which fell on the centenary of the French Revolution of 1789, was indeed marvelous, but its timing was shaped by controversy. France had been hosting international exhibitions every eleven years since 1855, and many felt that the tradition should continue in 1889. The coincidence of the date caused organizers some concern, as the monarchies of Europe were unlikely to participate in an event commemorating the decapitation of a king. Such fears were well founded, for Austro-Hungary, Belgium, England, Holland, Italy, Portugal, Russia, and Sweden, along with Spain, ultimately refused to send government delegations to the fair. As usual, the Spanish were slow to make their decision, deciding to abstain only after consulting with various diplomatic offices about what the other European kingdoms were doing. Although Madrid’s Conservative politicians opposed all forms of participation, Sagasta’s Liberal government provided a two-million-peseta subvention to support the exhibition of Spanish products sent by individuals, industrialists, and other special-interest organizations.51 Always careful to straddle a controversy, Spain’s turno pacífico government participated “extra-officially” at the 1889 fair. Committees were formed, commissioners appointed, and a Spanish pavilion built on the banks of the Seine. Matías López y López, who made his fortune in the chocolate business before entering politics, was president of the Spanish Commission. Several familiar faces appeared as well: José Jordana y Morera, who had

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served in Philadelphia and Barcelona, and Rafael Puig y Valls, who would play a major role in Chicago, also worked on the Paris Exposition. In contrast to Barcelona, Paris’s Exposition Universelle of 1889 was without question both universal and international. Although the United States, eager to present itself as a fellow republic, participated with enthusiasm, the relationship between France and Spain was more complicated. France had meddled repeatedly in Spanish affairs, from the Napoleonic invasion in 1808 to the intervention of 1823, during the Bourbon Restoration in France, to restore Ferdinand VII to the Spanish throne after a Liberal uprising threatened his rule. With the creation of the Third Republic in France in 1870 and the failure of the First Spanish Republic two years later, the two countries were governed by conflicting political systems for the rest of the nineteenth century. One was now a republic, the other a constitutional monarchy. Republican France invited Restoration Spain to the 1889 World’s Fair, which took place in a year that unfortunately coincided with the one-hundredth anniversary of a bloody antimonarchical revolution. In the context of this history, observes historian Manuel Viera de Miguel, France became linked to modernity and Madrid to tradition.52 Innovation and industrial progress were suggested by the construction of the Eiffel Tower in France, whereas the Spanish were represented by gypsies and flamenco music, bullfights (bloodless, to comply with French demand), and performances of regional dance.53 Most of these events were organized outside the fairgrounds by independent entrepreneurs. The Spanish also organized a huge display of food products and an impressive collection of fine arts, but their exhibition of industrial manufactures was disappointing and their display in the Palace of Machinery nonexistent.54 Romantic stereotypes of Spain, images that defined the country as absolutist, Catholic, and old-fashioned, had been consolidated at universal expositions held in London, Paris, and Philadelphia. Some Spanish participants objected to these distorted images, but others, hoping to appeal to foreign audiences, foster tourism, and reap economic benefits, reinforced them in their stylistic choices for pavilions and the things they chose to display. The Spanish were in a bind, and their best exhibitions in Paris—those in the Pavilion of Spanish Food Products and in the Palace of Fine Arts—manifested an effort to appear both Spanish and modern. Luis Jiménez Aranda captured this dynamic in a series of illustrations produced for La Ilustración Española y Americana. Jiménez Aranda was from Andalusia, the younger and less famous brother of the painter José Jiménez Aranda.55 He studied in Seville with Eduardo Cano de la Peña, who painted one of the canvases of Christopher Columbus exhibited at the Philadelphia Centennial, before moving to Rome to complete his studies.56 Continuing on to Paris in 1877, he supplemented his income by sending illustrations to the Madrid-based periodical. Jiménez Aranda’s depiction of “the current state of work on the construction of the Eiffel Tower”

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was published in November 1887 (fig. 26). The artist, in an up-to-date top hat and with a portfolio of drawings tucked under his arm, appears to be asking a guard about the work in progress. Although Jiménez Aranda is important for understanding Spain’s participation at the Paris Exposition, he remains a fairly obscure figure today. While his older brother returned to Spain to become an integral part of the artistic history of that country, Luis remained in Paris, settling in the nearby town of Pontoise.57 Neither tied inextricably to his home country nor accepted completely in France, the younger Jiménez Aranda produced a hybrid and transnational body of work that is only with difficulty incorporated into nationalist histories of nineteenth-century art. The Eiffel Tower, about which Jiménez Aranda was informing himself and his audience, marked the physical and symbolic center of the fair’s exposition grounds on the Champ de Mars. The ground plan, notes Debora Silverman, was based on a Gothic cathedral, with the Palace of Machinery in the sacred space of the apse, the dome of the Palace of Diverse Industries at the crossing, the Palaces of Fine and

Figure 26  París—Estado actual de los trabajos para la construcción de la Torre Eiffel (after a drawing by Luis Jiménez Aranda), in La Ilustración Española y Americana 31 (November 15, 1887): 285.

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Liberal Arts serving as side aisles, and the tower itself as a spire. In a place of honor beneath the Eiffel Tower were a number of small pavilions erected by the Latin American republics, which, like the United States, participated enthusiastically in the 1889 fair. Visitors walked through the feet of the massive tower, which served as the main portal of the metaphorical cathedral (and also as a gigantic triumphal arch), to enter the Champ de Mars and celebrate the economic prosperity made possible by the Third Republic.58 Machinery, industrial production, and the fine and liberal arts were the hallmarks of a modern and secular nation. Jiménez Aranda’s image of the Eiffel Tower signals French modernity in process: men labor to push a flatbed along tracks in the foreground, children watch from the relative safety of a hastily erected picket fence, and workers consult about the project on its way to completion. Other exhibits and pavilions were spread along the Quay d’Orsay, which led to the Esplanade des Invalides. Agricultural displays and pavilions representing the monarchies participating extraofficially at the fair and the French colonies were housed in these peripheral regions. The Spanish were given space along the quay to erect the Pavilion of Spanish Food Products (fig. 27), where visitors could peruse a vast arrangement of Spanish wines, pastries and other sweets, olive oils, dried fruit, and the like. France was Spain’s largest trading partner, and the Spanish hoped to address a trade imbalance by increasing the amount of merchandise moving north across the Pyrenees. The use of Islamic architectural sources differentiated Spain from the rest of Europe, and architect Arturo Mélida designed this temporary building in an eclectic style combining a neo-Mudéjar architectural vocabulary with touches of Isabelline Gothic and plateresque revival.59 The brick interlacing of arches to create a low relief lozenge design on the building’s façade (sebka), the double windows divided by an ornamental column (ajimez), and the red and white striping (ablaq) are all found in the Islamic architecture in Spain, although this last element was not used by Mudéjar builders. At the same time, the large panel at the top of the central section, depicting the eagle of Saint John wearing the heraldic shield of the Catholic Monarchs, along with the crests from the ancient kingdoms of Aragon, Navarre, Leon, and Castile, connected the edifice to Christianity and kingship. The architectural language of Catholicism surmounts that of Islam, and the building’s design, according to one Spanish guidebook, “symbolized the Mohameddan and Christian civilizations, with the domination of the second over the first after the almost eight centuries of epic warfare that formed the history of the Reconquest.”60 The French, too, noted the building’s hybrid style. One critic felt that the “different styles did not always harmonize well, giving the pavilion a somewhat disparate character,” but explained Mélida’s decision to combine them as a desire to make all these typically Spanish styles known in France.61

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Architectural elements borrowed from the past functioned differently during the course of the nineteenth century, depending upon the political situation of the time.62 Jerónimo de la Gándara designed the Spanish pavilion for the 1867 Paris Exposition in the neo-plateresque style in order to draw a connection between the glorious reign of Isabel, la reina católica, and the current rule of Isabel II, whereas Agustín Ortiz de Villajos avoided the style eleven years later, after her 1868 deposition. His Orientalist fantasy was based on a mix of elements derived from the mosque at CÓrdoba, the Alhambra’s Patio of the Lions, and the Alcázar of Seville. “Two different versions of Spain’s Islamic past were offered as expressions of the national style,” explains architectural historian Anna McSweeney.63 Whereas the Alhambresque, which was internationally popular, linked Spain

Figure 27  Pavilion of Spain, with Tourist Boat on the River Seine, Paris Exposition, 1889. Courtesy of the Library of Congress, LC-USZ62-106623.

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(like the fairs) to sites of whimsy and entertainment, the neo-Mudéjar was more explicitly Spanish. It also ensured the supremacy of the Catholic faith. These styles, moreover, functioned differently in Paris (and Philadelphia) than in Barcelona. At the Exposició de Barcelona in 1888, the Alhambresque was mostly avoided, used primarily for small installations specifically related to Granada or Seville; there, it served to differentiate Andalusia from the other regions of Spain. Gaudí’s pavilion for the Compañía Trasatlántica, which was also inspired by the Alhambra, was an unusual exception. Mélida’s use of Islamic architectural elements for the Pavilion of Spanish Food Products on the Quai d’Orsay, by contrast, conflated Spain as a whole with the exotic, the South, and the nation’s Muslim past. Views of the building’s exterior—the pavilion was usually photographed from across the Seine in order to best record the principal façade—isolate the building from its surroundings and include large piles of dirt; like the Eiffel Tower, Spain, too, was under construction. Images of the building often include one of the several steam-powered tourist boats that allowed sightseers in Paris to see the fair from the water. The vessel provides a modern contrast to the pavilion behind, and the tour guide seated in the back undoubtedly pointed out the historical references from which Mélida drew his inspiration. Although advertisements for such popular products as Byrrh, Amer Picon, and Bovril are clearly visible in photographs, these signs of international trade—Byrrh and Amer Picon are Frenchmade aperitifs and Bovril is a thick, salty meat extract produced in England—were erased when the photographs were engraved for reproduction and published in books and magazines (fig. 28). Signs for products made outside Spain detracted from the pavilion’s Spanishness. They also linked Spain to the international market—the Spanish probably rented space on their building’s façade to these foreign companies—and the contemporary moment. Being both Spanish and modern required constant negotiation. Luis Jiménez Aranda provided La Ilustración Española y Americana with a rendering of the pavilion’s two-story interior, which, like the façade, was similarly ornate (fig. 29). The lower level, described as a cool refuge from the hot summer,64 served as a wine cellar, and light from the far end of the receding horseshoe arches leads the eye into the deep space of the bodega. On the left, a Spanish serving girl offers a cosmopolitan visitor in top hat and spats—another rendition of the artist, perhaps—a sample of her wares. The column and capital that transition the eye from the lower to the upper level of the image are derived from Santa María la Blanca, the Toledo synagogue converted into a church after the 1492 expulsion of the Jews. Cleverly linked by Jiménez Aranda through the visually ambiguous trope of an exposed ceiling that serves simultaneously as the floor of the second story, the upper section of the building held additional agricultural products and exhibits that did not fit in other parts of the fair. Here, Jiménez Aranda included

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Figure 28  The Pavilion of Spain, in The Paris Universal Exhibition Album, 1889; L’Exposition Universelle de Paris; La Exposición Universal de París (London, Paris, New York: Published under the Patronage of the American Commission by W. Stiassny and E. Rasetti, [1889]), 68.

several large display cases and more visitors—including a woman carrying a baby and a young girl—examining rugs, baskets, and other objects arranged artfully along the right wall. Spain’s diversity (and religious hierarchy) was visible to those who looked carefully; whereas horseshoe arches were used on the ground floor, pointed arches appear above. Embarrassed by indifferent displays mounted in the Palaces of Machinery and Diverse Industries—where only a case of ironwork sent by Plácido Zuloaga merited Jiménez Aranda’s attention65—some critics pointed out that the richness of the Spanish pavilion merely reinforced the impression that Spain, like a colony, primarily produced raw materials for industrialized nations to exploit.66 It was only worth participating in a world’s fair if one could make a good impression, wrote one visitor from Spain, yet the pavilion had opened late, and the absence of a comparable exhibition in the Palace of Machinery suggested Spain’s willingness to serve as a hired hand for the rest of Europe. Further, the promotion of Spanish food and agricultural products, like the flamenco performances in the exposition’s main theater and the bullfights held in one of the five bullrings constructed in Paris for the fair, aligned Spain with the production of tasty treats and entertaining pastimes eagerly consumed by the French. The French, on the other hand, saw the Spanish display of wine as a challenge, for French vineyards had been ravaged in the previous two decades by phylloxera,

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Figure 29  Interior del “Pabellón Español de Sustancias Alimenticias” (after a drawing by Luis Jiménez Aranda), in La Ilustración Española y Americana 33 (August 22, 1889): 104.

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tiny aphidlike insects introduced accidently from North America. Although the pest eventually crossed the Pyrenees into Spain, the devastation was greatest in France, where at least two-thirds of the wine industry had been destroyed by 1889. The French presented their battle against phylloxera in didactic displays in their own agricultural pavilion on the Quai d’Orsay, where one foolhardy bureaucrat suggested bringing in some infested vines to demonstrate the disease. Had such an idea been acted upon, exclaimed a horrified agriculturalist, the vines would have infected neighboring plants, giving France’s enemies further excuse to prohibit the importation of their products.67 Jiménez Aranda’s drawing of the Pavilion of Spanish Food Products was reproduced in the French journal L’Exposition de Paris de 1889, and metaphors of weaponry were used to describe the formidable display. Barrels, casks, and crates filled with wine bottles lying on their sides, wrote the journalist, were pointed toward visitors like culverins (a rudimentary musket), while glass and crystal containers looked like military helmets and armored gorgets (throat pieces).68 Still, the predominant impression created by Spain’s largest exhibition in Paris—in front of the Pavilion of Spanish Food Products were more stalls and snack shops offering wine, sherry, olives, and tobacco, along with musicians, dancers, and colorfully attired waitresses serving food and drink69—was that of an exotic country, a nation that many French writers placed in Africa rather than Europe. Although products and performances came from many regions of the country, they coalesced outside the borders of the nation into a stereotype. Andalusia is not known for its wine, but bullfights, flamenco, and the most famous examples of Islamic architecture are readily associated with this region. Pellicer, who produced a delightful little handbook of sketches and observations from his trip to the Paris fair, noticed with surprise that “Spain,” as personified in the dome of the Palace of Diverse Industries, consisted of only two regions: one represented by a woman accompanied by picadors labeled Andalousie and the other, perhaps in recognition of the previous year’s fair in Barcelona, called Catalogne.70 Castile, to say nothing of Galicia, the Basque Country, or any of the other regions of Spain, was not included.

Paintings to “Satisfy the Dark and Ferocious Spanish Imagination” It was through the fine arts that the Spanish hoped to redeem themselves and perhaps even triumph, but although this was one of the best selections of Spanish painting ever sent to Paris, it too resulted in mixed messages and a disappointing response.71 Emilia Pardo Bazán, a staunch defender of Spain, chronicled the situation for the press and actively participated in the debate that broke out about the

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paintings on display. A committed Catholic, Pardo Bazán was deeply interested in politics, contemporary culture, and the intellectual progress of her country. An inveterate traveler, she introduced the emerging literary movement of naturalism into Spain with her novel Los pazos de Ulloa (The House of Ulloa) in 1886, and compiled her letters about the fair in two books—Al pie de la Torre Eiffel and Por Francia y por Alemania—after her return from France in 1889. Pardo Bazán was disappointed to find that the Spanish government’s equivocal position on the Exposition Universelle de Paris had made things difficult for organizers. Although the Liberals allocated money for extraofficial participation, Conservative politicians refused to lend their support at several key moments in the process. María Cristina did not visit the fair, although other Spanish aristocrats, including the deposed queen Isabel II, a resident of Paris, most certainly did.72 Pardo Bazán, who wrote that “the best politics is to present oneself well and make a graceful impression,” claimed that Matías López, president of the Spanish Commission, had little interest in the fine arts. He appointed painter Manuel Domínguez head of the area but otherwise remained uninvolved.73 Working closely with Domínguez was painter Enrique Mélida, brother of the architect and also a Paris resident. Mélida managed to negotiate an excellent position in the Palace of Fine Arts, on the ground floor directly opposite the wing reserved for France. The Spanish had two centrally located rooms, one 28 × 14 meters and the other fourteen meters square, much better than in Philadelphia, where they had shared a gallery at the far end of Memorial Hall. Artists resident in the United States, despite its status as a fellow republic, were angered to find themselves relegated to a remote location on the second floor of the building.74 The Spanish exhibition contained 116 oil paintings by artists living in Paris, supplemented by others working in Madrid, Barcelona, and Rome. Preliminary review committees were organized in each of these cities, and a jury of eminent artists was charged with the final selection of works for display.75 Spanish painters affiliated with commercial dealers in Paris were especially well represented, and the fifty-eight artists in the final selection included many of the best-known artists of the era. The exhibition was much more comprehensive and well balanced than that in Barcelona, where Catalan painters had dominated the walls. Pardo Bazán, who had attended the inauguration of the Barcelona exhibition the previous year, was eager to compare her country’s fair to the exposition in Paris. She was therefore furious to learn that Conservative politicians in Madrid had initially blocked the loan of government-owned paintings to the competition.76 After an extended campaign, during which Emilio Castelar, president of the short-lived First Spanish Republic in 1873–74, personally appealed to Prime Minister Sagasta, three works were finally released from the national museum: José Moreno Carbonero’s Conversion of the Duke of Gandía (1884, Museo Nacional del

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Prado), Antonio Gisbert’s Execution of Torrijos and His Companions on the Beach at Málaga (plate 7), and Casado del Alisal’s Legend of the Monk King, popularly known as the Bell at Huesca (plate 8). These were gigantic Spanish history paintings that would certainly make an impact. Castelar approved of Gisbert’s work in particular. The artist, whose Landing of the Puritans in America (plate 2) had unsuccessfully asserted the fraternity of Spain and the United States at the Philadelphia Centennial, was known for promoting liberal causes, and his rendering of the death of Torrijos was a government commission to commemorate those who had challenged the authoritarian reign of Ferdinand VII after his abolition of the constitution in 1812. The French had failed to support the Liberal Triennium, which sought from 1820 to 1823 to restore democratic processes to Spain, and when José María de Torrijos and his closest followers made a renewed attempt on behalf of the cause in 1831, they were arrested by forces loyal to the king and summarily executed on a beach near Málaga. Casado, who had passed away two years before the fair, was likewise represented by a canvas that presented the undemocratic actions of a king. His Legend of the Monk King depicts Ramiro II, the twelfth-century ruler of Aragon who, finding himself challenged by a conspiracy of nobles, threatened to create a bell that would resound throughout the region of Huesca and call forth his subjects in obedience. Ramiro summoned fifteen of the conspirators and decapitated them one by one. Arranging their heads in a circle, he hung the head of their leader in the center to serve as the bell’s clapper. When the government purchased Casado’s painting, Emilio Castelar praised it as one of the masterpieces of Spanish history painting.77 The paintings by Casado and Gisbert seemed likely to appeal to the French public, and to republicans in general, for depicting the dangers of unchecked monarchism. The government released two other large history paintings, both owned by the Spanish Senate, for display. Muñoz Degrain’s Conversion of Recarred I (1888, Senado de España) portrayed the conversion of the sixth-century Visigothic king to Catholicism. Like the Conversion of the Duke of Gandía, it demonstrated the importance of religious unity to the well-being of the state. The second painting, Francisco Pradilla’s Rendition of Granada (1882, Senado de España), also celebrated unification, depicting the moment in which Boabdil, the last Muslim ruler of Granada, handed over the keys of the city to the Catholic Monarchs. Pradilla’s painting had been sent to the international exhibition in Munich in 1888, and upon its return to Madrid it was affixed directly to the wall of the Senate to prevent further loans. This installation, in the opinion of Pardo Bazán and others, jeopardized the long-term condition of the canvas. Pradilla himself appealed to the Senate, asking them to remove the painting from its unorthodox

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support and send it to Paris. The senators agreed, but they refused at the last moment to allow its frame to accompany the painting. Castelar again was forced to intervene. These five monumental history paintings were hung in the large rectangular gallery awarded to Spain. The smaller square gallery (some called it an octagon because the corners were angled) was hung with portraits, landscapes, and genre scenes, the kind of work that had been mostly absent in Philadelphia. Jiménez Aranda drew a vignette of the second gallery, which was published in La Ilustración Española y Americana shortly after the opening of the fair (fig. 30). Toward the back of the image is one of the five paintings submitted by his brother José. Consummatum Est (1888, Hispanic Society of America), a rendition of Christ on the cross, is to the right of the portiere; hanging nearby were a portrait of his daughter titled Reverie and a casacón depicting men in eighteenth-century costume playing chess in an Andalusian tavern. A fairly large history painting by Ricardo Villodas was hung above the doorway, and seven small works by Francisco Domingo were to the left of the door, while portraits and landscapes by Raimundo de Madrazo, Eliseo Meifrén, and Martín Rico appeared in other parts of the room.78 At the very back of Jiménez Aranda’s illustration, through the entryway to the gallery behind, a mob of curious spectators gather around one of the large canvases sent by the government. They are probably admiring Gisbert’s Execution, in front of which French visitors would stop, bow their heads, and murmur, according to Pardo Bazán, “Ça, c’est très-fort!”79 It was for their grand history paintings, in addition to more readily marketable works like those produced by Jiménez Aranda’s older brother, that the Spanish expected to take home medals from the fair. The big room was melancholy and the little one gay, explained Pardo Bazán; together, they showed the two faces of Spain. The gallery in which the government works were hung, she continued with pride, was filled with extraordinary scenes of “bloodstained beaches, coagulating blood, and bodies decapitated by the Monk King in his crypt.” These works “represent our sorrowful history, which is truly a history of war and of death.”80 French critics agreed that the paintings were gruesome but did not find them worthy of praise. Such works were made to “satisfy the dark and ferocious Spanish imagination, its need for bloodshed and taste for horror,” wrote Maurice Hamel in a review published in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts.81 Louis Gonse, another French reviewer, agreed that these large Spanish paintings were “historical, pompous, truculent and macabre.”82 “The Spanish have conserved their taste for the theatrical,” wrote Emile Monod in a review that was only slightly more complimentary;83 Ernest Meissonier, chair of the jury of awards, concurred. Consisting of forty individuals, almost half of them French, Meissonier’s jury completely ignored the Spanish history paintings by Gisbert and Casado.84 It also

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failed to bestow medals on Pradilla and Muñoz Degrain. Of the five paintings sent by the government, just one—Moreno Carbonero’s Duke of Gandía—received an award, and only a second-class medal at that. To the surprise of all, including the Jiménez Aranda brothers, it was the sole submission by Luis Jiménez Aranda, a gigantic canvas of doctors making rounds in a hospital ward, that received the coveted Medal of Honor (plate 9).85 This painting, too, was hung in the large gallery, where it competed in size with the history paintings sent from Madrid. Representations of the Spanish monarchs making charitable visits to patients in the hospital—images like José Bermudo Mateos’s Alfonso XII Visiting the Hospital in Aranjuez (1887, Museo de Historia de Madrid) and Juan Comba’s drawing Queen Regent Visiting Sick Soldiers (fig. 31), for example—were regular offerings in Restoration Spain. Bermudo Mateos included

Figure 30  Una sala de la sección española en el Palacio de Bellas Artes (after a drawing by Luis Jiménez Aranda), in La Ilustración Española y Americana 33 (May 30, 1889): 317.

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a nurse in nun’s habit at the sick patient’s side, and Comba likewise included two clerics, along with several military officers, in his drawing of María Cristina at Madrid’s Hospital del Buen Suceso. In contrast, Jiménez Aranda depicted only the chief medical doctor and his assistants examining a young woman with tuberculosis, omitting the regal, military, and religious associations usually found in Spanish painting. A genre painting in subject and a history painting in size, A Hospital Room During the Visit of the Chief Doctor marks a move away from Spanishness and toward the painting of modern life. Jiménez Aranda’s hospital might be situated in Madrid, Barcelona, Paris, or even Philadelphia; the artist had undoubtedly seen Henri Gervex’s Dr. Péan Teaching His Discovery of the Compression of Blood Vessels at St. Louis Hospital (1887, Musée d’Orsay) at the Paris Salon of 1887, if not reproductions of Thomas Eakins’s Gross Clinic (1875, Philadelphia Museum of Art), which owes a debt to Velázquez and had been exhibited in the U.S. Army Post Hospital at the 1876 Centennial Exposition. Pardo Bazán called Jiménez Aranda’s painting afrancesada, finding it somewhat bland and monotonous.86 The French, she concluded, liked A Hospital Room because it corresponded to their own manner of painting. The canvas lacked color, and its surface was smooth. Most were not familiar enough with Spain and its history to understand the five paintings sent from Madrid, she continued disdainfully; they called the painting of Torrijos and his companions The Execution of the Torrijos, as if Torrijos were the name of a group rather than an individual, and thought a painting by Emilio Sala of Torquemada demanding the expulsion of the Jews was a defense of the Immaculate Conception.87 She was shocked by the jury’s decision. Then she became angry. Differing artistic preferences, the same ones that were pushing Catalan painters away from Madrid, help explain the controversy that ensued. Carlos Reyero, who has studied the French response to the 1889 Spanish exhibition, notes that both Hamel and Alfred Picard, reporting for the French, observed that the “new principles of naturalism” had not yet arrived in Spain.88 Eusebio Blasco, a Spanish journalist who worked in Paris as an editor of Le Figaro and was therefore familiar with French taste, also expressed concern. He reminded Spanish readers that paintings awarded medals in Madrid sometimes failed to live up to their reputations when exhibited in Paris. Blasco praised Madrazo’s portraits of stylish women, Rico’s Venetian landscapes, and the small studies and genre paintings by Domingo, none of which took historical events as their subject. He also complimented the hospital scene submitted by Jiménez Aranda, noting, “this is not a Spanish subject, nor is it painted in that style.”89 Word of the jury’s decision to award the Medal of Honor to Jiménez Aranda began appearing in the press in early July. Demetrio Araujo preceded his announcement by explaining that he had run into a knowledgeable French art

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critic (possibly Louis Gonse) and had asked what he thought of the Spanish paintings on view. Spain, came the disappointing response, was still producing the same kind of work it had shown at the world’s fair of 1878. “Spanish painters do not live in the real world, nor are they inspired by nature,” continued the critic. For this reason, they like to create gigantic canvases depicting historical subjects from the past, paintings that seek to move and terrorize the viewer. It is a type of art that appeals to the “haughty and dreamy personality of the Spanish hidalgo, content to remember the past glories of his nation.”90 Araujo then revealed that Luis Jiménez Aranda, who had long lived in Paris and excelled in drawing, has been awarded a Medal of Honor. Both Gisbert and Pradilla were threatening to withdraw from the exhibition in protest; Casado must have been turning over in his grave. Many Spanish observers attributed the jury’s decision to national bias, accusing the French of honoring Parisian artists in order to reinforce their own cultural

Figure 31  S. M. la Reina Regente visitando á los soldados enfermos instalados en el Hospital del Buen Suceso (after a drawing by Juan Comba), in La Ilustración Española y Americana 33 (February 15, 1889): 100.

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values. They contrasted the number of medals their painters had won with those from other countries, concluding, “the French want everything for themselves. Never has there been an occasion such as this, in which everything, everything, everything is turned into a continuous hymn of glorification to the genius of France. Those nations which are similar and with which they hope to cultivate political alliances have been a bit more favored, and when circumstances permit, there is an almost unstoppable tendency to reinforce the principles of 1789.”91 Blasco, who claimed to have inside knowledge about the deliberations, published a second letter in Madrid trying to explain the decision.92 Meissonier, he wrote, had walked through the gallery of Spanish paintings, stopped before A Hospital Room, and said, “This is the only modern painting in the section; it is the only one in my opinion that deserves the highest award.” The rest of the paintings, especially those sent from Madrid and Rome, wrote Blasco, “smell of friars, the Inquisition, and moors.” An incendiary piece of journalism, Blasco’s review accused his compatriots of reinforcing the same stereotypes they claimed to disavow. We are quick to get angry when the French believe we are armed with knives and keep a bonfire ready in the Puerta del Sol for the next autoda-fé, but we are also the first to prove that Spain is always the same. Right now, in Paris, while the walls of the Spanish Pavilion are still bare and we have installed the least possible number of useful, artistic, and agreeable objects in a tiny room in the Palace of Diverse Industries, we have also erected three bullrings, brought gypsies from Granada, . . . and invited three hundred manolas, charras, cigarreras, and students dressed as tunas from Madrid. The bullfights provoked a particularly vociferous protest, especially after one of the matadors, fed up with the bloodless charade and responsive to calls from the crowd, which included Isabel II, killed one of the bulls.93 The Spanish, the French cried in response, were just as brutal as their paintings. Spanish exhibitions at the 1889 World’s Fair generally conformed to French expectations. Pardo Bazán, along with Luis Alfonso and Eugenio Lafuente, jumped to Spain’s defense. Alfonso, who had watched the awards controversy unfold in Philadelphia, was a seasoned critic of conservative tastes. He weighed in immediately with a rapidly penned letter addressed to Blasco, titling it “Pintar como querer” and demanding the right of Spanish painters to “paint as they wish.” Lafuente began his defense by questioning the relationship of modern art to what one painted and how one painted it.94 He sarcastically advised Spanish painters hoping to follow in Jiménez Aranda’s footsteps to buy a cheap suit and tie, pose their models

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performing some trivial action, and above all make sure their work did not say anything profound. Pardo Bazán concurred, calling the jury’s decision an injustice. “If the paintings despised by the Paris jury smell of friars, the Inquisition, and moors,” she wrote angrily, then A Hospital Room “smells of carbolic acid!”95 The audience in Paris was different from that in Madrid and Barcelona; the context had changed. Exhibiting The Execution of Torrijos and The Legend of the Monk King at a world’s fair coinciding with the anniversary of the French Revolution, an event to which most European monarchies, Spain included, refused to send official delegations, changed the meaning of these works. Both paintings present the dangers of absolutism, but with differing effect. Gisbert’s painting may have been commissioned by a liberal arm of the Spanish government to remind its citizens of the values promoted by constitutional monarchy, but it might just as well have reminded the French of their failure to support democracy in the country next door. The Legend of the Monk King could likewise be read in multiple ways, even within Spain. Casado was left speechless when, incognito, he asked a bystander at the 1881 National Exposition in Madrid what he thought of the painting. The viewer replied that, in his view, “the king ought also to kill the nobles in the picture for protesting at his dispensation of justice.”96 At the Exposition Universelle in Paris, the meaning of these paintings oscillated between liberal manifesto and defense of kingship. And the irony of Ramiro II’s method of murdering his opponents—decapitation—could not have been missed at a fair where one of the most notorious proposals for a public monument was the erection of a giant guillotine to celebrate the beheading of Louis XVI.97 Defining and defending Spain in Barcelona and Paris was a thankless task; Spanish national identity was conflicted and complex. Spain did not mean the same thing in Barcelona that it did in Madrid, and it meant something else again in Paris. Spain defined its modernity on its own terms, and within its borders that modernity was defined in multiple ways. Historians Elena Delgado, Jordana Mendelson, and Oscar Vázquez put it this way: “The autonomous communities of Catalonia, Galicia, the Basque Country, Andalusia, Valencia (among others) with their differing historical traditions, languages, and artistic expressions constitute internal fissures that prevent even the notion of Spanish modernity from being written in the singular form.”98 In contrast, the history of the United States was written as a linear narrative. Beginning in Massachusetts, it extended to Philadelphia, where the nation celebrated its birthday at the Centennial of 1876. It was a simple story, but a powerful one. Luis Jiménez Aranda painted his award-winning depiction of a hospital ward, and his Lady at the Paris Exposition, as a cosmopolitan Spanish painter living in France. His was only one of many possible positions that a Spanish painter could assume. History that is presented as homogenous may be easily understood and readily embraced. Complexity requires more work.

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Spain’s multiple national identities created a challenge for the organizers of the Barcelona fair; they sometimes came together and sometimes threatened to fall apart. The Spanish tried to present a more unified image in Paris, a simple narrative that equated the country with kingship, Catholicism, and the exotic. These fictive narratives spoke most clearly outside the borders of a complicated nation. They led as well to the greatest misunderstanding.

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3   Marginalizing Spain (and Embracing Cuba) at the 1893 Columbian Exposition

C

om me mor at ion of t he four-hund red th anniversary of Christopher Columbus’s voyage to the Americas seemed a perfect opportunity for the United States and Spain to work together to emphasize common values and shared history.1 The Spanish saw it as such, for despite their poor reception in Philadelphia, they participated in the World’s Columbian Exposition, which opened a year after the celebratory date of 1892, even more energetically than they had in the 1876 Centennial. Organizers re-created the silk exchange of Valencia, a center of world trade under construction during Columbus’s first voyage, to serve as its national pavilion, and prepared large exhibitions—housed for the most part in elaborate interiors based on historic buildings from Spain’s late medieval and early modern past—for the Woman’s Building, Agricultural Building, Palace of Fine Arts, and Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building. The Spanish also sent the Duke of Veragua, a direct descendent of the celebrated navigator, to the opening ceremonies in May. Princess Eulalia, representing Queen Regent María Cristina, traveled to the fair to inaugurate the Spanish exhibitions as well. It was the first visit to the United States by a member of the Spanish royal family. Both Spanish dignitaries, contributing to the festivities and performing their roles with varying degrees of success, were on display at Chicago’s Columbian Exposition. U.S. participants also mounted exhibitions related to Spain, most of which likewise referred to Columbus and the same historical period. William Eleroy Curtis, chief of the U.S. Latin American Bureau, was responsible for constructing a replica of the Monastery of La Rábida on the shores of Lake Michigan. Visitors could view a comprehensive historical presentation of Columbus’s life and journeys inside this building, a “gloomy, odd-looking structure,” according to one observer, or rest their weary feet in its cloistered garden.2 The citizens of

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Figure 32  Caravels at the Fair, in Hubert Howe Bancroft, The Book of the Fair [. . .] (Chicago: Bancroft, 1893), 126.

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Florida, Texas, and California built state pavilions that also referenced Spanish history, using the fair as an opportunity to present themselves as distinct from other regions of the country. Their understanding of Spain complicated, but failed to dislodge, the singular national narrative promoted seventeen years earlier at the Philadelphia Centennial. One of the most popular, and certainly the most mobile, of these Spanish displays consisted of three full-sized replicas of Columbus’s ships—the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa María. Built in Spain, they traveled first to Havana, from there to New York, and eventually through the St. Lawrence River and the Great Lakes to Chicago as a collaborative venture funded by the governments of the United States and Spain (fig. 32). The ships were docked at the south end of the fair in an inlet next to the Agricultural Building, where visitors could take their turn boarding these floating replicas of the past. The year 1492, the fulcrum for nineteenth-century national-identity formation in Spain, appeared either explicitly or implicitly in all the Spanish exhibitions mounted in Chicago. This was the historical moment from which the Spanish were trying to develop multiple, overlapping, and mutually supportive notions of the nation—one based on the unification of Spain under the Catholic Monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, another based on the journeys of Christopher Columbus and a Spanish empire in the Americas, and a third linking Spain’s past to future opportunities for colonial expansion in North Africa.3 The Spanish performed

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this vision of Spanishness through the historicist language of architecture and the protocols of diplomacy. But as they worked to present their ideals in Chicago, organizers and fairgoers from the United States were using their physical presence in these fictive spaces to manifest their own memories of history. Visitors from Cuba provided a third point of view, one that brought the imbricated nature of transnational relations into sharp relief and, like the fair in Barcelona, again demonstrated the conflicted nature of Spanish national identity in the late nineteenth century. Whereas the 1888 Exposició Universal highlighted some of the problems plaguing Madrid’s relationship with Catalonia, the 1893 Columbian Exposition in Chicago brought Cuban differences clearly to the fore. The Spanish organized their exhibitions in such a way as to foster trade relations, reassert their position in the Americas, and promote current notions of Spanish national identity. U.S. participants and visitors at the fair, as in Philadelphia, responded to, altered, and subverted these messages, relegating Spain’s relevance to the past, disavowing its importance in the present, and ignoring its attempts to control trade in the Caribbean. As the national image of the United States became defined more emphatically as a Protestant republic populated by English-speaking individuals destined to expand their power across the Western Hemisphere, Spanishness became increasingly incompatible with this vision. Other U.S. national, ethnic, and religious identities—African American, Asian, and, of course, Native American—presented challenges as well.4 Spain, Cuba, and the United States all seemed to agree that 1492 was a year to celebrate. What that year meant and how it contributed to the contemporary moment, however, differed for each of the three. In Chicago, Spain was exhibited, embodied, and performed, marginalizing the “Spanish element in our nationality” and making it all the more difficult to remember today.

“A Spanish Castle of the Time of Columbus” Spain’s Government Building at the fair, sited between the pavilions sponsored by Canada and Germany, was in an area on the shores of Lake Michigan reserved for foreign nations. The Spanish considered their pavilion, a partial replica of Valencia’s late fifteenth-century silk exchange La Lonja, to be an exhibit unto itself (fig. 33). “The building,” Enrique Dupuy de Lôme told the press, “will form an exhibit of Spain, for it will be a replica of a Spanish castle of the time of Columbus. In this building will be shown a grand historical collection of the country which sent the great explorer on his voyages to America.”5 The commissioner-general, who had just been appointed Spain’s chief ministerial representative in Washington, elaborated further about Spanish participation at the fair in an essay penned specially for readers in the United States: “Spain is erecting in Jackson Park an

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official building, modeled on the handsome exchange at Valence (La Lonja), constructed in 1482 by Pedro Conte, and it will be a brilliant example of the style of architecture of the transition period, from the Gothic to the Renaissance, as the discovery of America was the transition from the middle ages to our modern era.”6 The architect for this modern adaptation was Rafael Guastavino, who had moved from Barcelona to the United States in 1881 and became known for his Renaissance-­inspired vaulting work at the Boston Public Library.7 Constructed at a cost of $45,000 and measuring 84 × 95 feet, with a square tower reaching sixty-­ five feet into the sky, Guastavino’s building featured an elaborate double doorway flanked by two neo-Gothic arched windows, each terminating in a large cross, above which were reliefs symbolizing commerce and finance. The section of La Lonja chosen for reproduction was the Hall of Columns and tower prison, where defaulting and bankrupt merchants were confined. Hubert Howe Bancroft, author of a monumental illustrated volume titled The Book of the Fair, attributed Spain’s decision to base its Government Building on the Lonja to Dupuy de Lôme, who hailed from Valencia and was said to have selected the Silk Exchange in honor of his native city.8 Valencia is closely associated with the legendary exploits of Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar (El Cid Campeador), the Castilian nobleman who conquered the city in 1094 and ruled this diverse region of Muslim and Christian subjects until his death. The Muslim population declined after 1492, but moriscos—Muslims who converted to Christianity—­continued to make their home in the region until their expulsion by Philip III in 1609. As such, Valencia is one of several provincial cities on the Iberian Peninsula associated with religious hybridity, the cultural and linguistic plurality characteristic of Spain, and domination by centralizing Castilian forces. More specifically, the Lonja was associated with fifteenth- and sixteenth-century commercial competition, for it was used to attract merchants to the city at a time when the Indies were threatening to shift trade away from the Mediterranean and toward the Atlantic. The decision to include the tower prison in the Chicago re-creation gently reminded visitors to deal fairly with Spain in matters of trade. The Spanish Government Building housed the offices of the Spanish Commission, a reception room for visitors, and a series of exhibits.9 Eight spiral columns supporting the vaulted ceiling graced the central hall, and a circular stairway led to the tower. Félix de la Torre’s façade for Valencia’s new psychiatric hospital is visible on the far left of the bottom photograph reproduced in Bancroft’s Book of the Fair, and the large canvas on an easel may be Gonzalo Bilbao’s Return from Work (ca. 1893, location unknown). Near the main entrance hung a second large painting by Justo Ruiz Luna titled October 12, 1492 (1892, Museo de Cádiz), a marine scene depicting Columbus’s ships anchored off the coast of Guanahani, the first island in the Bahamas encountered by the explorer upon arrival in the

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Figure 33  The Spanish Building and Interior of Spanish Building, in Hubert Howe Bancroft, The Book of the Fair [. . .] (Chicago: Bancroft, 1893), 907.

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Americas.10 Also included were prints and photographs, many of which represented historical incidents and personages relating to Columbus and his journeys. Architectural renderings for theaters, hospitals, and other public projects, overflow from the Palace of Fine Arts and the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building, lined the interior walls of the space. While the architectural source for the building and repeated references to Columbus gestured toward the past, the inclusion of recently completed public works provided a complementary nod to the present. Past and present likewise coalesced in the Woman’s Building, where an exhibition of needlework, embroidery, regional clothing, and some 283 books by women authors, many of them contemporary, was installed in a second space inspired by the architectural achievements of the early modern period. Some called this one of Spain’s strongest displays, although it almost failed to materialize owing to faltering diplomatic relations preceding the fair.11 Alfonso XIII turned eight years old in May, and the regency’s policy of turno pacífico, the system of alternating power between Liberal and Conservative factions, left both the Spanish ministry in Washington and the U.S. ministry in Madrid vacant until shortly before the fair. Bertha Palmer, president of the Board of Lady Managers, made extensive use of ministerial resources during her two trips abroad to meet with women in Europe.12 Lacking diplomatic liaisons who could introduce her to women of influence in Madrid and Barcelona, however, she left Spain off her itinerary. Despite its historical connection to Columbus, Spain was not at the top of the list of European countries that Palmer most wanted to invite to the fair. As a result of such problems, and perhaps in a nod to those who proposed that Queen Isabella share credit with Columbus for the “discovery” of the Americas, the Spanish did receive a central location on the longitudinal axis of the Woman’s Building. In this instance, they elected to re-create a section of the Church of San Juan de los Reyes in Toledo, completed in 1504 by the reyes católicos in celebration of a victory over the Portuguese. The elegant cloister, which may be seen in photographs collected by Princess Eulalia during her trip to Chicago, was ornamented by busts of Ferdinand and Isabella, a coat of arms representing the united kingdoms of Castile and Aragon, and the slogan of the Catholic Monarchs, “Tanto Monta Monta Tanto,” emblazoned along its entablature (fig. 34). The motto, created by Antonio de Nebrija, author of the first Spanish grammar, translates roughly as “They Are One and the Same,” a reference to the equality of Ferdinand and Isabella and the ideal of unification. As in the Government Building, objects were hung on the walls, installed in cases, and placed behind barriers that separated visitors from the items on view. The Spanish galleries in the Agricultural Building were based on a third early modern architectural source, the cloister of San Gregorio de Valladolid, also

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erected under the patronage of the reyes católicos (fig. 35). San Gregorio housed one of Spain’s most important educational institutions, and the exuberant plateresque architecture of the cloister’s second-story arcade was turned inside out to create a semi-enclosed space for the exhibition of Spanish products. The decision by Spanish organizers to reference ecclesiastical architecture from the towns of Toledo and Valladolid linked these Spanish displays to central Castile, promoted in the 1890s as the purest, most castizo region of the peninsula. These architectural sources aligned the country with the Catholic Church as well. Spanish nationalists, observes historian Scott Eastman, “reaffirmed their adherence to the church by grounding national identity and citizenship in their common Catholicism. . . . Those who seek to disentangle a secular identity from older, religiously based solidarities gloss over the fact that modern nationalism in the Hispanic Atlantic world was predicated upon Catholic imagery and identification.”13 Many viewers

Figure 34  Sección de la mujer—Lado izquierdo, 1893. Archivo General de Palacio, box 27 (10167531). Photo © Patrimonio Nacional.

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Figure 35  Agricultura—Vista exterior, 1893. Archivo General de Palacio, box 27 (10167528).

in the United States, for their part, readily recognized and understood Spanish Catholicism in terms of and from the perspective of their own (Protestant) religious identity.

Photo © Patrimonio Nacional.

“I Write You Now from Cuba” The Spanish were confined to a small side gallery in the Agricultural Building, which they divided into two rectangular spaces to accommodate agricultural products sent from Spain, Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines. From the peninsula came wheat, nuts, and olive oil; the colonies contributed tobacco, sugar, coffee, and abacá fiber. Rafael Puig y Valls, one of the commissioners sent by the Spanish government to Chicago, wrote both an official report about the fair and a lengthy and informative book about his trip to the United States. Puig praised

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the agricultural display but noted that tobacco manufacturers in Havana had threatened to boycott the exhibition in response to the McKinley Tariff, passed by the U.S. Congress in 1890.14 This tariff, a protectionist tax targeting manufactured goods imported to the United States, allowed Cuban growers to send raw materials to the U.S. market but levied a large tax on finished products like cigars and cigarettes. Agriculture, along with viticulture and manufactures, was one of the areas in which the Spanish hoped to develop new markets, and Puig’s chronicle is filled with advice to readers at home who might wish to sell their products abroad. Citrus and grain from Spain, he concluded with disappointment, could not compete with the quality and price of goods produced in North America. Spanish wines, which were exhibited in the Horticultural Building, were also unlikely to find a market in the United States.15 American vines were relatively resistant to phylloxera, which had devastated French vineyards, so Spanish wines did not have the same advantages in Chicago that they had in Paris. Not only were California wines better than Puig had imagined, but many U.S. citizens named beer, not wine, as their beverage of choice. Eva Canel, a Spanish nationalist living in Cuba who reviewed the fair for both the peninsular and the Cuban press, chided Madrid for its failure to fight the tariff and protect its commercial interests in the Caribbean.16 Every time a tobacco factory closes in Havana, wrote Canel, five open in the United States.17 Cuban colonias, communities of workers aligned with the tobacco business, quickly followed, and it was in these U.S. neighborhoods that anti-Spanish feelings developed, fomenting the Cuban insurrection. Trade was still a contentious issue for Spain, Cuba, and the United States, with the Spanish government working to maintain control over Cuban trade and Cubans seeking to trade directly with the United States, its neighbor immediately to the north.18 Photographs published with Canel’s articles include views of the “Spanish Section,” in addition to details of the beautifully constructed exhibition cases sent by tobacco manufacturers to display Cuban cigars and cigarettes. Publications in the United States reproduced these photographs but omitted Spain’s name from the captions, referring instead to Cuba and Puerto Rico as if they were sovereign nations, (already) independent from Spain (fig. 36).19 Photographs can function on several levels, often simultaneously. “Moving as they do between persuasion and illustration, information and picture, there is a contest whenever these functions are subsumed under a specific cultural authority to convey content and create meaning,” writes Julie Brown about photography at the Columbian Exposition.20 Cuban nationalists took the point about Cuban sovereignty even further, with Manuel Pichardo beginning his chapter on the agricultural display as follows: “I write you now from Cuba, the elegantly ornamented

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pavilion in Agricultural Hall where our country shines. In this part of the fair I feel truly proud of my countrymen, for the Cuban installation does not just compete with, but surpasses, all others in quality and importance. It seems in my eyes to be the precinct of a nation, rather than that of a colony under attack, exploited and exhausted.”21 Describing Cuba as both country (país) and nation (nación), Pichardo promoted a Spanish Cuban identity distinct from Spain and insisted upon Cuban independence in terms of both land and political governance. He wrote enthusiastically of the early modern architecture used for what he called “Cuba’s house,” readily connecting his island to Spanish history but calling simultaneously for emancipation from colonial rule. Photographs of the Spanish agricultural display often included the Spanish organizers physically occupying (Pichardo might have said “colonizing”) Cuban space. They lean casually against beautifully sculpted mahogany cases in which Cuban cigars and other tobacco products are displayed and peer through San Gregorio’s arcade toward the viewer (see fig. 35). As in the Woman’s Building, the exterior of the pavilion containing these agricultural products included such ornamentation as the crest of the reyes católicos, high relief busts of Ferdinand, Isabella, and Columbus, and a pairing of the years 1492 and 1892. Inside, the upper arcade from the cloister of San Gregorio was punctuated by laurel branches and medallions, upon which were written in gold letters the principal products of the island. Three horizontal panels, one each for the Chambers of Commerce in Havana, Cienfuegos, and Santiago de Cuba, framed and draped by dark curtains, adorned the other side of the space. Beneath were statistics relating to sugar, tobacco, and mineral production for the year 1892.22 Such repeated references to commerce made proud claims about the economic prosperity of Spain’s island colony and pointedly reminded visitors of both Spain’s illustrious past and the relationship of that past to its current possessions in the Caribbean. Whereas Spanish officials created for their exhibition of agricultural goods an elaborate architectural facsimile referencing Castile, Ferdinand and Isabella’s unification of Spain, and by extension the colonial expansion and economic prosperity occasioned by their support for Columbus and his journeys, they employed more conventional display techniques in the Palace of Fine Arts. Here, the powerful role of painting and sculpture as indicators of a nation’s progress may be linked to organizers’ reluctance to deviate from standard Beaux-Arts installation practices of the late nineteenth century. Having learned from previous experience that such exhibitions must be juried to ensure quality, the Spanish government delegated responsibility for selecting the works sent to Chicago to the Círculo de Bellas Artes in Madrid, a private members’ organization founded in 1880 to promote the fine arts in Spain. The jury was composed of five illustrious painters— José Jiménez Aranda, Aureliano de Beruete, Juan Espina, Martín Rico, and Joaquín

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Figure 36  Cuba— Agricultural Building, in James W. Shepp and Daniel B. Shepp, Shepp’s World’s Fair Photographed, Being a Collection of Original Copyrighted Photographs (Chicago: Globe Bible Publishing, 1893), 177.

Sorolla—and three sculptors, José Alcoverro, Justo de Gandarias, and Jerónimo Suñol. Yet controversy over the selection still ensued, and the government elected to supplement the exhibition with a small number of works that had been awarded medals in previous exhibitions and purchased for the national collection.23 Artists not selected by the jury in Madrid or included in this addition were allowed to send their works to Chicago, but they did not receive support for shipping. Artists from Cuba and the other Spanish colonies were likewise responsible for making their own arrangements. The final display, which included paintings and sculptures by some 160 artists and a selection of watercolors, prints, and architectural renderings, was hung salon style from floor to ceiling and in cases along the walls of the gallery. Some works were sent to the Spanish Government Building when the galleries in Fine Arts proved too small to accommodate them. Several large canvases specifically depicted the history of Columbus, among them the Ruiz Luna painting hung in the Government Building, José Garnelo’s gigantic First Homage to Christopher Columbus, and Armando García Menocal’s only slightly smaller Embarkation of Columbus, by Order of Bobadilla (plates 10 and 11). Garnelo’s First Homage updated Dióscoro Puebla’s First Landing (see plate 1), which had been shown in the Philadelphia Centennial, and changes made

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by the artist since its presentation the previous year in Madrid—banners and flags with the Spanish escutcheon were added to the background and a large cross was erected behind the standing figure of Columbus—reinforced the painting’s alignment with key components of Spanish nationalism.24 A number of scholars have discussed the ways in which artists in the United States manipulated and deployed the Columbus story to support their own national ideals.25 Spanish and Latin American artists were likewise engaged,26 and the degree to which the Spanish representatives in Chicago sought to control their messaging is suggested by the controversy sparked by the painting submitted by García Menocal, a Cuban trained at the Academy of San Fernando in Madrid. While Garnelo’s painting presents Columbus’s triumphant arrival in the Americas, Menocal’s work depicts the proud explorer at a dark moment in his career when, having been imprisoned in the Indies for abuse of power by the newly appointed Spanish governor, Francisco Bobadilla, he was led to a ship for return to trial in Spain. Painters on the Iberian Peninsula rarely depicted this moment in history, as many saw it as an act of betrayal. Cubans, on the other hand, found it an effective means of expressing both proximity and resistance to Spanish nationhood.27 Columbus in chains, notes cultural critic Catherine Vallejo, was readily interpreted as the colony enchained.28 Such subtleties made little impact on U.S. viewers, but Cubans Manuel Pichardo and Raimundo Cabrera, attuned to the message, made a point of seeking out Menocal’s painting during their visit to the Palace of Fine Arts; Pichardo encountered the artist himself in the gallery. But the painting they found in Chicago was not the same as the one seen in Havana, for the Spanish commissioner-general had forced the artist to paint out the chains binding Columbus’s wrists before allowing it to be hung. The painter, wrote Cabrera in disgust, “has had to submit to Spain’s representative Dupuy de Lôme, who would have thrown the painting out without this mutilation. . . . To deny history, distort truth, and destroy the work of an artist in the name of hypocritical and badly conceived patriotism is a punishable act that the critics should never pardon,” he concluded.29 Even with the requisite amendments, jurors from Spain made sure the painting did not receive official recognition. While the Columbus subjects painted by Ruiz Luna and Garnelo received medals, Menocal’s painting did not.30 Exhibited with these Columbian themes was a diverse group of images that included Ramón Casas’s Portrait of Erik Satie (1891, Charles Deering Library, Northwestern University), a second version of Planella’s The Child Worker, which had received a gold medal at the 1888 Barcelona Exposition (see plate 6), and Sorolla’s Another Marguerite!, depicting a destitute young woman taken into custody by the national guard (plate 12). These works responded to demands that Spanish artists focus on contemporary realist subject matter, and several, including the paintings by Casas and Sorolla, were acquired by collectors in the United

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States. The exhibition also included a number of stunning watercolors painted in Morocco by José Tapiró, who had been a close friend of Mariano Fortuny (fig. 37).31 These works conformed to Orientalist ideas about Spain. Such works were complemented by history paintings sent by the government, some of which— like José Moreno Carbonero’s Conversion of the Duke of Gandía (1884, Museo Nacional del Prado) and Antonio Muñoz Degrain’s Lovers of Teruel (1884, Museo Nacional del Prado)—had been shown in Paris four years earlier. Luis Jiménez Aranda’s gigantic Hospital Room (plate 9), which caused such excitement at the 1889 Universal Exposition in Paris, was also shown in Chicago, and although it received a medal, it otherwise provoked little comment. Arguments over awards inevitably ensued when the Spanish received only twenty-five medals for painting. Some attributed the results to poor advocacy on the part of painter Juan Espina, who was sent to Chicago at the insistence of the Círculo de Bellas Artes and did not speak English well enough to participate in the deliberations. The commissioner of fine arts, Joaquín Pavía y Bermingham, resigned from the international jury for undisclosed reasons, and Espina replaced him. “There is little to note in the Spanish . . . galleries,” wrote New York art critic William Coffin dismissively.32 Rafael Balsa de la Vega, art critic for La Ilustración Artística, responded angrily with an article blaming the Spanish committee for failing to protect its own interests, calling the exhibition “an artistic failure” and demanding an inquiry.33 Painting exhibitions mounted at world’s fairs were almost always controversial.

The Great Mosque at Córdoba Another of the large history paintings sent to Chicago from the national collection was Eduardo Rosales’s Isabella the Catholic Dictating Her Will (1864, Museo Nacional del Prado), a thirty-year-old classic that meshed well with the fair’s celebration of Columbus and also provided a connection to the Catholic Monarchs’ third accomplishment of 1492: the expulsion of the last Nasrid ruler from Granada and Isabella’s directive, made on her deathbed, that Spain continue the conquest into North Africa.34 Spain’s Islamic history was referenced by the re-creation of the Great Mosque of Córdoba for the display of Spanish damascene ware, ceramics, textiles, and furniture in the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building (fig. 38). Rafael Puig, the commissioner in charge of the Spanish display in this building, encountered a variety of problems upon arriving in Chicago to oversee installation at the end of March. Puig found the city dirty, smoky, and strange, and he disliked Chicago’s elevated railway and skyscrapers. Preparations were behind schedule owing to worker strikes and bad weather; the building was leaking; it snowed in April; and U.S. customs agents insisted upon going through every single

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Figure 37  José Tapiró, A Moorish Bridegroom, in William Walton, Art and Architecture, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: George Barrie, 1893), 2:80.

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Figure 38  Spanish Section, in Hubert Howe Bancroft, The Book of the Fair [. . .] (Chicago: Bancroft, 1893), 217.

crate at an interminably slow, “inquisitorial” pace.35 His decision to transform the Spanish section into a mosque may have been prompted by the poor quality of the space, broken into four unevenly sized patios and obscured from natural light by an overhead gallery. Argentina, Brazil, Mexico, Persia, and Portugal were in similarly cramped quarters and in close proximity, whereas the United States, France, Germany, and Great Britain inhabited the lion’s share of the space in the central section of the building. The choice of an Andalusian monument for Manufactures grounded Spain’s national presentation of industrial goods in the southern part of the country, a region identified by foreign tourists as quintessentially Spanish, but considerably less developed than the northern regions that produced most of these manufactured objects. Andalusia also differs significantly from Castile, seat of the national government in Madrid. The Great Mosque of Córdoba displays an Andalusian hybridity, with a massive Catholic cathedral sited in the center of what was previously a structure built for Muslim prayer. Visitors like Bancroft enthusiastically described the reconstruction in Chicago as the product of “Spain and certain of

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her old-time dependencies.” “The Spanish pavilion, with its gloomy arches, its massive pillars, its pink ceilings and richly fretted ornamentations is an impressive structure, reproducing some of the more salient features of the cathedral of Cordova. A collection of religious images, tall candelabra and embroidered tapestries in which are recognized the features of the pope and the queen-regent of Spain, further tend to create an atmosphere of church and state.”36 Bancroft associated the structure primarily with Catholicism—he even called it a cathedral rather than a mosque—but Córdoba’s imposing Renaissance church, built in the sixteenth century within the walls of the Great Mosque, was not in fact included in the Chicago reconstruction. Instead, Puig and his assistants employed Islamic architectural elements drawn exclusively from the mosque before the Christian conquest of the city in 1236. The replica brought together a variety of accurately reproduced architectural elements, suggesting a hypostyle hall of horseshoe arches decorated with alternating voussoirs of red and white. The foliated capitals and arches placed atop one another—horseshoe arch on bottom and semicircular arch on top—likewise reproduced architectural elements found in the original, and even the entrance to the Spanish section mimicked the maqsura, the highly ornamented space in front of the mihrab traditionally reserved for the caliph and his court. “The architectural representation of cultures at the world’s fairs was double-sided, making a claim to scientific authority and accuracy while nourishing fantasy and illusion,” notes architectural historian Zeynep Çelik.37 Yet only the occasional absence of columns to support areas spanned by triple arches, an architectural decision that created large expanses of space within which to display the objects sent for exhibition, ruptured the accuracy of the replica (fig. 39). Conditioned by the circulation of images depicting London’s Crystal Palace, where Owen Jones had re-created the Alhambra’s Patio of the Lions, viewers describing the Chicago display regularly confused the Cordoban place of prayer with Granada’s Palace of the Alhambra, despite their strikingly different appearance: they were built at very different times, by entirely different rulers, and for completely different purposes. The caption writer for an elegant souvenir book called The Vanished City, for example, described Chicago’s replica of the Great Mosque thus: “The visitor to the Spanish section of the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building is at a loss which to admire most, the wonderful reproduction of a magnificent hall in the Alhambra, which constitutes the pavilion of that country, or the rich exhibits contained within its space.”38 The photograph accompanying this mistaken description depicts the awkward triple arches. The image is oddly composed and off balance, with a vertiginous plunge of space created by a repetition of architectural form that leads the eye into the far distance. Logic, reason, and classical proportion disappear in the photographs reproduced in The Vanished City and in other U.S. publications documenting Spanish exhibitions at

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Figure 39  Moorish Arcade from Spain, in The Vanished City: The World’s Columbian Exposition in Pen and Picture [. . .] (Chicago: Werner, 1893).

the fair. Spanishness, such as that found at the Great Mosque of Córdoba and its replica in Manufactures, was misunderstood and out of place amid the classical order of Chicago’s White City. The Alhambra was also invoked in a different building at the fair: Horticultural Hall. Here, somewhat to the consternation of Dupuy de Lôme and his organizing committee, who felt they ought to be in the Agricultural Building, were the wine displays. This confection of architectural ornament was derived from the Court of the Lions, complete with pseudo-Kufic writing used to create vertical and horizontal cartouches and honeycombed muqarnas that obscure and deny the engineering of the arches. The photograph published by Bancroft, like those depicting the cloister of San Gregorio, shows several occupants inhabiting the space (fig. 40). A second view shows the Spanish coat of arms and other signage announcing the Spanish display hanging from above.39 Hoping to find new markets in America, some twelve hundred exhibitors from Spain—the largest number from any foreign country— used the space to stack wine barrels and bottles into towering displays. The decision of Puig, a Catalan, and Dupuy de Lôme, from Valencia, to place textiles and wine in these Islamic-inspired surroundings demonstrates the prevalence and conflicted character of Maurophilia in Spain during the late nineteenth

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Figure 40  Looking into the Viticultural Hall, in Hubert Howe Bancroft, The Book of the Fair [. . .] (Chicago: Bancroft, 1893), 431.

century.40 Art historian Andrew Schulz argues for “a notion of Spanish national identity that equates nation with territory, as well as with the development and adoption of a set of shared cultural practices within that territory.”41 He sees the presence of turbaned bullfighters in Francisco Goya’s Tauromaquía, for example, as an absorption of Muslim culture into the fabric of Spanish history, thus marking a departure from the ideology of a Christian conquest founded on a paradigm of alterity and cultural conflict. Puig, by contrast, expressed disgust for the Islamic ornamentation in Horticultural Hall. He called the structure unsuccessful in both conception and execution, with poorly supported arches and a tasteless paint scheme.42 Although the Spanish sought to make their architectural spaces coalesce around the year 1492, bringing together the notions of peninsular unification, Columbus’s discovery of America, and North Africa, the Spanish commissioners involved in the fair were not always pleased with the results. For the Spanish, the replica in Chicago of the Great Mosque of Córdoba, looking back at its Muslim antecedents, came at a time of conflict. Newspapers in Spain shifted their attention abruptly from the United States to Morocco when Riffian Berbers besieged Melilla, one of the two Spanish colonies on the North African coast, in early October 1893. Popular periodicals such as La Ilustración Española y Americana replaced front-page images of the exposition with graphic illustrations captioned “Our Modern Weapons of War,” and the October 22, 1893, issue of this magazine featured a fierce “Moroccan Warrior” outfitted in a rude Saharan cloak and holding a modern Remington rifle (fig. 41). The image makes a compelling

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Figure 41  Tipo de guerrero marroquí, in La Ilustración Española y Americana 38 (October 22, 1893): 241.

comparison to Tapiró’s Moorish Bridegroom, a watercolor that hung in the Palace of Fine Arts (see fig. 37). The periodical’s caption, claiming that the image of the warrior was based on a photograph, admitted that the Riffian people were closer in appearance to the Spanish than this ebony-skinned individual appeared to be. It also assured readers in Spain that all Moroccans possessed a deeply bred love of war and religion, along with an appreciation for modern European weaponry.43 Melilla, a fortified city on the coast of Morocco, had been claimed for Spain by the reyes católicos in 1497 as a first step toward colonization of North Africa. Along with Ceuta, located closer to the Straits of Gibraltar and acquired by Spain from

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Portugal with the Treaty of Lisbon in 1668, it came under repeated attack over the course of the nineteenth century. Fortuny, one of the few nineteenth-century artists from Spain to receive extended attention in the United States, was sent to Ceuta to observe the 1859–60 military campaign and paint a heroic image of the Spanish-Moroccan War. His popularity continued well into the 1890s, and viewers were disappointed to find only one of his works at the Columbian Exposition, Beach at Portici (1874, Meadows Museum, Dallas), which was part of the Loan Collection of Foreign Masterpieces owned by collectors in the United States.44 Spanish painters were rarely given center stage in U.S. collections of European art, but Fortuny, whose career was linked with North Africa, was an exception.45 Such paintings moved Spain, in the imagination of many viewers, from the center of Europe toward both the past and North Africa. Orientalist painting was popular in the United States despite geographical distance, little direct involvement in the colonization of North Africa and the Middle East, and few opportunities for actual interaction with people from these regions.46 During the late nineteenth century, Orientalism in the United States demonstrated the cosmopolitanism of the country and provided armchair tourists with a safe escape into a world of fantasy and entertainment. “Commerce and production defined the United States for many,” according to historian Susan Nance, “and arts informed by the Orient provided an artistic tradition that many Americans and Easterners believed could allow for incredibly ostentatious and expensive productions that celebrated consumer subjectivities.”47 For this reason, no doubt, a Moorish palace—an imposing edifice comprising an implausible mixture of Egyptian, Persian, Ottoman, and Spanish architectural elements—was erected in the center of the Midway Plaisance, immediately east of the Ferris wheel, in the exposition’s pleasure zone. Commentators, again erroneously, claimed that the building “was built to remind visitors of that wondrous building, the Alhambra,”48 and, in a bizarre gesture, one drawing of the palace shows a large rose window in the center of the edifice.49 Spain and the imagination were closely linked at the Chicago World’s Fair. “One of the greatest attractions of all,” wrote Benjamin Truman, author of History of the World’s Fair, “is the Moorish Palace, filled with excellent wax figures, mirrored labyrinths, cafés and ‘La Dijonnaise,’” reputedly the very guillotine used to execute Marie Antoinette.50 Mirrors are not actually used in Islamic architecture, and what the guillotine had to do with Spanish history is not made clear in the text. “The Moorish palace,” explained another commentator, “contained a garden of palms and a waxwork show, a chamber of horrors, a labyrinth, a room of mirrors, and a theater of optical illusions.”51 The attraction, financed by a panopticon proprietor from Berlin and managed by a dragoman from Syria,52 commanded an admission of twenty-five cents. Admission to the souvenir shop and restaurant café

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were free. Trumbull White and William Igleheart, authors of a detailed description of this fanciful attraction, linked the architecture of the palace, and its interior exhibits, directly to Spain: This building is a fine one, in the elaborate style of Moorish architecture, surmounted by an airy dome; and the slender pillars of its interior, with their graceful stems and richly carved capitals, vastly multiplied in number by an ingenious arrangement of mirrors, suggest that marvel of Moorish art, the Alhambra. The walls and ceilings are decorated with fine paintings. Grottos and fountains illuminated by colored electric lights abound, and Arab attendants in native costumes wait upon the visitors. Objects of art and various curios are sold in the bazaar. One of the most curious exhibits is the “Fountain of Youth,” representing aged females entering the water, and merging from it ravishingly beautiful and returned to their teens. This is a practical representation of the idle myth so long sought for by the early Spanish explorers.53 A series of photographs of the Moorish Palace depicting both the labyrinth and the harem were included with this text, and images representing the Arab attendants and wax figures—it is unclear in the photographs which is which, although the partially nude women from the harem were undoubtedly made of wax—convey the impression that visitors could interact directly with these alluring individuals. Dancing girls emerge from Ponce de León’s “fountain of youth” (the Hammam) to strike a dramatic pose, the labyrinth threatens to let visitors fall into infinity, and women in revealing clothing relax in the company of men (fig. 42). The wax figures were life-sized, and barriers between viewers and the exhibition were removed, thereby facilitating actual encounters with these improbably imagined scenes. Removing Spain and Spanish culture from the realm of the real even further, Truman reproduced and brought back to life a Spanish Orientalist painting from 1869 by Fortuny, captioning the twenty-five-year-old painting “An Arabian from Midway Plaisance” (fig. 43)! Comparison of the photograph of the mirrored labyrinth, which also appears in Bancroft’s Book of the Fair, with the photograph of Spain’s re-creation of the Great Mosque in The Vanished City (see fig. 39) demonstrates again how photographers in the United States manipulated and Orientalized Spanish architectural constructions of national identity.54 The photographer of the mirrored labyrinth had to position himself carefully in order to keep his own reflection out of the image; the creator of the photograph in The Vanished City was likewise strategic in his placement, standing slightly off-center and manipulating the aperture and exposure time to command an impressive depth of field. Both images produce a

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Figure 42  Interior of Moorish Palace, in Trumbull White and William Igleheart, The World’s Columbian Exposition, Chicago, 1893 [. . .] (Philadelphia: Elliott & Beezley, 1893), 587.

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disorienting recession into space, leaving whatever is at the end of these tunnels invisible and unexplained. Illusion and trickery, explains art historian Michael Leja in his study of the 1901 Exposition in Buffalo, are manifestations of dishonesty and deceit, an idea that merges well with portrayals of the Spanish past, especially those, like the Moorish Palace, where the illusionism of the historical scene allowed viewers to imagine the nation of Spain as inseparable from such negative qualities.55 The desire on the part of U.S. fairgoers to view Spain through the lens of fantasy and the imagination came crashing into the realities of foreign diplomacy when the Spanish government accepted an invitation to send a member of the royal family to the fair. María Cristina, the queen regent, preferred to remain in Spain, and Princess Eulalia, youngest daughter of Isabel II, embarked upon the

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Figure 43  An Arabian from Midway Plaisance, in Benjamin Cummings Truman, History of the World’s Fair: Being a Complete Description of the World’s Columbian Exposition from Its Inception (Philadelphia: Mammoth Publishing, 1893), 574.

adventure in her place. Transatlantic travel by European royalty was still a rare occurrence, and the voyage of Eulalia; her husband, Prince Antonio de Orléans; her lady-in-waiting, the Marquesa de Arco Hermoso; Prince Antonio’s private secretary, Pedro Jover; and the Duque de Tamames received extensive coverage in both the Spanish and U.S. press.56 The letters and memoirs of the princess provide additional information about the journey. The travelers departed from Santander aboard a modern Spanish steamship, made a highly publicized stop in the Canary Islands, visited the Quinta de los Molinos in Havana, and attended Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York before arriving in Chicago. Chicago’s Daily Inter Ocean, which catered to the upper echelons of Chicago society, made it clear even before the princess’s arrival that Eulalia might not fit its idea of royalty. “Formerly she was the merriest of Spanish infantas, but since her marriage to Prince Antoine, which occurred in 1886, when the Infanta was twenty-­two years old, she has fallen into a stain of settled melancholy.”57 The princess, who had left Madrid at the age of four in 1868, when her mother was deposed

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from the Spanish throne, spent most of her childhood in Paris. Her marriage led quickly to the arrival of two sons, born in 1886 and 1888, and a daughter, who died in 1890. No more children were forthcoming, and a sea voyage may have been conceived as a means of improving her spirits. While the Duke of Veragua, a direct descendent of Columbus who was sent to the fair in time for the opening ceremonies, accommodated U.S. expectations in every particular, the Infanta Eulalia did not. And while the wax figures in the Moorish Palace presented a nonthreatening Spanish fantasy, this young princess, in need of rest and diversion (despite the fact that she, too, was on exhibit at the fair),58 surprised royal observers at every turn. Eulalia’s letters to her mother suggest a dutiful daughter struggling to fulfill her formal duties while chafing at the demands of her position. It was, she wrote, a “dangerous mission”;59 there were too many invitations to accept, the heat of a humid summer was insupportable, and she was exhausted. Her remarks about a “dangerous mission” referred, no doubt, to tensions in the United States over the island of Cuba. Princess Eulalia Day was celebrated at the fair on June 8, shortly after her arrival. The press was quickly offended by her behavior, displaying knee-jerk hatred for the protocols of monarchy and, simultaneously, deep anger whenever those protocols were abandoned. The Daily Inter Ocean attributed its distaste for the intricacies of a royal visit to “pure Republican simplicity” and reported, “you must kneel down and kiss the hand of the princess when presented, and then back out. I think you should also wear court dress, although these things should not be required in a republic.”60 Arriving in New York, the princess told the press, in English, that “her one wish [was, in contrast,] to be treated in the American way.”61 Once in Chicago, she left her rooms in the Palmer House incognito in order to get a sense of the city and ate twice at the German Village, her favorite restaurant on the Midway. She did not, it seems, enter the Moorish Palace, although a photograph of her riding along the Midway shows that she passed its flamboyant exterior.62 Shepp’s World’s Fair Photographed remarked upon how unusual it was to see a princess in this bustling avenue of pleasure and commerce, but was generally complimentary in its comments.63 Halsey Ives, head of fine arts at the Columbian Exposition, was decidedly less so in The Dream City: The visit of the Spanish Infanta to the World’s Fair was attended with some surprising demonstrations of toadyism, and betrayed a growing love of monarchy among many ambitious people. . . . Our engraving represents Prince Antonio of Bourbon on the left, the Marchioness of Arcohermoso [sic] standing next, and Her Royal Highness seated in front. Standing at the right is Commodore Davis, who was deputed by

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the United States Government to take charge of the royal party while it remained on the shores of America. The rigor with which this officer maintained the Spanish etiquette created no little dissatisfaction among the elite of American society, and, it is to be hoped, received due reward at Madrid. The Princess, however, whether haughty or condescending, was welcomed by the public, and her formal attendance at Jackson Park swelled the paid admissions by at least fifty thousand in a single day. She was attended by Mayor Harrison, and liked the Fair very much, going many times, but keeping the prominent citizens at a frigid distance.64 Ives further conveyed his disdain by reproducing a formal state photograph titled “The Princess Eulalia and Escort” in close proximity to a North African “Bedouin Chief and Family.” Like the French, Ives must have thought that Africa began at the Pyrenees. The Duke of Veragua received somewhat better treatment, for he willingly played the role of Columbus at the fair. According to the Shepps, “We have been fortunate also in entertaining the Duke of Veragua, a lineal descendant of Christopher Columbus, and the bearer of many of his titles and dignitaries. In reading of the great Admiral he seems so far removed from us that we are apt to look upon him as almost a myth, but this man bearing his name and instinct with his blood, brings Columbus very near to us. We feel that the centuries are short after all, and that all history is, as it were, the record of a day.”65 Veragua played his role well, helping U.S. visitors at the fair realize their reified image of the Spanish past; the princess, a modern young woman eager to escape the strictures of royal society, did not.

Lieux de Mémoire In addition to participating in opening ceremonies at the Columbian Exposition, the Duke of Veragua lent a valuable collection of historical memorabilia that was displayed in the replica Monastery of La Rábida, just east of the Agricultural Building on a small spit of land extending into Lake Michigan (fig. 44). William Eleroy Curtis, a promoter of political and commercial relations between the United States and Latin America, was responsible for this building, which was listed in catalogues as part of the anthropology and ethnography exhibitions nearby. Spanish writers rarely mentioned the monastery—it was not even placed on the itinerary for Princess Eulalia to visit—but one U.S. writer called it a “crowning feature of the Exposition.”66 The contrast between this building, with its chapel, belfry, and open courtyard within, and the neoclassical grandeur of the Court of Honor was, according to visitors, “a

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Figure 44  Convent of La Rabida, in James W. Shepp and Daniel B. Shepp, Shepp’s World’s Fair Photographed, Being a Collection of Original Copyrighted Photographs (Chicago: Globe Bible Publishing, 1893), 309.

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startling one. . . . The quaint walls and roof, and the general ensemble, which is that of the middle ages, give the visitor a correct idea of the religious architecture of old Spain at the time of Columbus.”67 Curtis, a staunch supporter of U.S.-led Pan-­ Americanism who embraced a prejudiced discourse that understood the Spanish as either bloodthirsty brutes or picturesque peasants doomed to inevitable decline, had chosen to represent Spain with a building, in the words of diplomatic historian Benjamin Coates, that “emphasized inferiority.”68 Inside the monastery were exhibitions tracing the history of Columbus and his journeys. The first room explained geographical science in 1492 (it included a facsimile of the globe fashioned by German cosmographer Martin Behaim), while other displays introduced the visitor to the court of Ferdinand and Isabella; the birthplace and boyhood of Columbus, Columbus’s activities in Spain, his four

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voyages to the Americas, his death and burial, and historical documents lent by the Duke of Veragua, New York book collector John Boyd Thacher, and the Vatican. Originals mingled comfortably with copies; fifteenth-century manuscripts on loan from Pope Leo XIII were exhibited like relics in protective wall cases, and copies of such nineteenth-century Spanish paintings as Muñoz Degrain’s Queen Isabella Offering Her Jewels (ca. 1878, location unknown) were hung on the walls.69 An odd amalgam of original and copy, old and new, real and fake, characterized the exhibition mounted within Chicago’s Monastery of La Rábida.70 Visitors to the monastery stood respectfully before, yet separated from, historic originals and were simultaneously transported back in time and given the opportunity to live, breathe, and walk through the refabricated corridors of the ancient Spanish monastery. In the late nineteenth century, notes political theorist Timothy Mitchell, there was “a contradiction between the need to separate oneself from the world and to render it up as an object of representation, and the desire to lose oneself within this object-world and to experience it directly—a contradiction that world exhibitions, with their profusion of exotic detail and yet their clear distinction between visitor and exhibit, were built to accommodate and overcome.”71 “La Rabida brings Columbus very near to us, and ably bridges the gulf of centuries,” claimed the authors of Shepp’s World’s Fair Photographed. “The very bed upon which the Great Admiral slept is before us; the cup from which he drank, the articles used by him in his daily life, lie here to draw him back from the realms of shade, and give to his personality a vividness and reality truly delightful.”72 “As one passes through some of the old-fashioned doors, it is even necessary to stoop,” wrote the author of another exhibition guide.73 The experience of history offered by La Rábida was a somatic one, one that encouraged the visitor to fall silent in the sacred space of the (unconsecrated) chapel, listen attentively to the sound of the church bell, or sit down with a friend amid the aromatic vegetation of the enclosed patio (fig. 45). Such multisensory experiences, which allow viewers to touch, smell, hear, and even taste the past, communicate their messages most convincingly when used in combination with the visual stimulus of exhibition display.74 The World’s Columbian Exposition offered visitors many opportunities to experience the past by walking through the architectural space of historical replicas like La Rábida. Although versions of the past may be preserved in words and images, explains anthropologist Paul Connerton, social memory is equally, if not more deeply, ingrained through embodied action.75 Indeed, the Spanish sought to employ this effect in the Government and Agricultural Buildings, linking the past to the present through the exhibition of contemporary public works and tobacco products within the historically resonant spaces of the Valencia Silk Exchange and the cloister of San Gregorio in Valladolid. Photographs of these spaces, such as those reproduced in Bancroft’s Book of the Fair, often include people to offer a sense of scale, to

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Figure 45  Interior Views of La Rabida, in Hubert Howe Bancroft, The Book of the Fair [. . .] (Chicago: Bancroft, 1893), 657.

respond (or not) to the photographer, to provide the viewer with a surrogate, and to bring these places to life. The Monastery of La Rábida, conceived and constructed by a diplomat from the United States with ties to expansionist projects in Spain’s former Latin American colonies, likewise conveyed visitors to the past, but he provided no means by which to bring them back to the contemporary moment. State pavilions at the fair were designed to welcome visitors and thereby enable embodied experience as well, and like the buildings that drew from Spanish history, these too worked to reanimate the past. Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and Virginia, which tied their history to the British and the War of Independence, re-created such sites as the John Hancock House (Massachusetts), Independence Hall (Pennsylvania), and George Washington’s Mount Vernon (Virginia). Philadelphia even lent the Liberty Bell—a precious artifact marking the Revolutionary War—which traveled a circuitous route through Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois to arrive at its temporary home in the rotunda of the Pennsylvania pavilion.76 At the Mount Vernon replica, visitors could also interact with original and copy alike. “Not only is the edifice at Jackson park an exact reproduction of the original, but many of its contents are also reproduced in fac-simile,” wrote Bancroft. Jefferson’s prayer book, with his autograph on the flyleaf, and the silver watch that he carried were among the

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relics on view.77 As art historian Lydia Brandt explains, elite white Virginians successfully presented their edifice as both a paragon of the southern plantation system and, through the South’s apparent willingness to reconcile with the Union, a symbol of shared national history.78 Regional modes of identity were visible, but they were subjugated in states with complicated histories, as they had been in Philadelphia, to the national narrative. In a promising gesture of inclusion, Florida, Texas, and California looked to Spain rather than England for their architectural inspiration. Although the Florida legislature failed to provide funds, a private group constructed a replica of Fort Marion, which traces its history back to 1672, when the Spanish erected the Castillo de San Marcos in the city of St. Augustine.79 This Spanish city boasts a longer period of continual European residence than any other in the United States, but its name, like the name Fort Marion, was anglicized. Francis Marion, after whom the fort was rechristened in the years following Spain’s cession of the region to the United States in 1821, was a military officer from South Carolina who served in the War of Independence. By moving up the coast from Florida to South Carolina, one of the thirteen English colonies, and forward one hundred years, from Spanish colonization to the Revolutionary War, the fort was converted from a Spanish building into something more appropriate to the history of the (English) United States. The women who sponsored the Texas Pavilion sanitized the Spanishness of their building in a different way, contenting themselves with an eclectic structure in the style of the Renaissance. The building, with a square tower at one corner and several loggias, was roofed with tiles, which gave it, according to Bancroft, an affinity with “the old catholic missions of San Antonio.”80 The California Building also drew inspiration from historical time, referencing again, this time with greater accuracy, mission architecture (fig. 46). This edifice, designed by San Francisco–based architect Arthur Page Brown, who had trained in New York with McKim, Mead & White, featured several belfries and an austere unornamented exterior. Claiming that it was a composite of the Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo missions founded by Padre Junípero Serra, Bancroft couched his description of the building within a negative characterization of Spanish colonization and the treatment of the Indigenous population: “California’s edifice is a reproduction of the mission buildings of her golden age, the era that preceded the age of gold, when Franciscan padres dozed away their harmless lives, and amid peace and plenty ate and drank of the products of the soil planted and garnered by their neophytes.”81 Franciscan padres (Spanish men) eat, drink, and sleep, while neophytes (converted Indians) do the work. The California Building offered more than offices and a resting spot for its citizens, some of whom may be seen entering the building in the photograph reproduced with Bancroft’s text. It also contained a diverse grouping of exhibits,

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Figure 46  California Building, in Hubert Howe Bancroft, The Book of the Fair [. . .] (Chicago: Bancroft, 1893), 823.

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augmenting those found in other parts of the fair. A pyramid of fruit, sixteen feet in height and topped by a statue of a bear, rivaled pomological exhibits in the Horticultural Building. There, in an amusing gesture of local pride, stood a monumental replica of Pennsylvania’s Liberty Bell (fig. 47), covered in oranges! Both regional and national histories were present, but the national invariably prevailed. Being both Spanish and British was hard to reconcile. The California Building was picturesque, concluded Bancroft, but “it would seem that a more appropriate design could have been selected for the display of mineral specimens, of fruits and cereals fresh gathered from the rich soil of the golden state.”82 Spanish, Bancroft seems to imply, should not be the architectural language spoken by a state admired for wealth and economic opportunity. Closely related to these exhibits was one of the most popular interactive displays in Chicago: Columbus’s three caravels, the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa

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María, which were built in Spain, sent across the Atlantic, and anchored at the fair (see fig. 32). The United States sponsored the construction of the Niña and the Pinta in Barcelona, and the Spanish paid for and built the Santa María in Cádiz.83 Journalists in both countries paid close attention to the journey of these ships, from their ceremonial christening in Spain to their arrival in Cuba, where the United States handed them over to the Spanish navy.84 The Spanish had orchestrated elaborate celebrations in Barcelona, Madrid, Valladolid (where Columbus had died), and Huelva, whence the ships had departed on their journey, during the quadricentennial year 1892. The designer of one gigantic poster for the Barcelona festivities used the image of a caravel, with sails unfurled and flags swirling in

Figure 47  Liberty Bell in California Section, in Hubert Howe Bancroft, The Book of the Fair [. . .] (Chicago: Bancroft, 1893), 442.

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the wind, to anchor a lengthy list of celebratory events that included illuminated street decorations, parades, regattas, concerts, “Valencian firecrackers,” and the placing of several new portraits of Catalan dignitaries in the city’s Gallery of Distinguished Catalonians.85 Timed to coincide with the late September celebration of the city’s patron saint, Nuestra Señora de Merced (Our Lady of Mercy), Barcelona’s festivities displayed the competing amalgam of regional and national expression that characterized Catalan culture. The mayor of the city presided over the event. In Huelva, the southwestern province in which the Monastery of La Rábida may be found, regional nationalism—never as strongly entrenched as in Catalonia—took a back seat to the presence of Spanish monarchy. While the poster designer for Barcelona’s celebration placed textual inscriptions on the twisting scrolls flying from the mast of the ship to rupture the illusion of space, emphasize the flatness of the image, and align the work with Catalan modernisme, the designer for the event in Huelva employed a more traditional—and by extension more academic (and politically centralized)—depiction of space. Celebrants could join an excursion to the (real) Monastery of La Rábida or tour the caravels before they began their trip across the Atlantic. Fireworks, regattas, and parades with beautifully decorated floats were organized, as were concerts, lectures by members of the IX Congreso de Americanistas, and bullfights. Madrid, for its part, hosted two large historical exhibitions at the newly constructed National Library.86 One, the Exposición Histórico-Europea (Historical European Exhibition), traced Spain’s relationship to Europe; the other, the Exposición Histórico-Americano (Historical American Exhibition), drew connections to the Americas. The United States participated in this second exhibition and showed, thanks to Curtis, “every available portrait of Columbus and pictures relating to his life and voyages,” along with a collection of taxidermied animals and Native American objects, many of which adorned lifesized mannequins, lent by the United States National Museum (the Smithsonian).87 After the caravels arrived in Cuba, Captain Víctor María Concas led the small squadron up the U.S. coast to New York, where ships from around the world joined them in the Hudson River on April 27 for a grand naval review. From there, the ships were towed through the Erie Canal to Lake Michigan. They arrived to great fanfare in Chicago on July 8, two months after the fair opened to the public. Once the ships docked, visitors could board and tour the “antique” vessels, touch their brass fittings, smell the oil of the polished wood, and marvel at the intrepid explorers who braved a transatlantic voyage in such small boats and under such uncertain circumstances. Spanish viewers may have likened such heroics to contemporary naval officers like Captain Concas, who had distinguished himself as a defender of Spanish interests in Valparaiso (Chile), Cuba, and the Philippines. But other narratives were also possible. The presence in Chicago of a large immigrant population from

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Scandinavia revived a nationalist rivalry between Christopher Columbus and Leif Ericson, with supporters of the Nordic explorer’s claim to primacy constructing a replica of the ninth-century Gokstad Viking ship for exhibition at the fair. “The reason the vessel was built by the Norwegians,” explained Shepp’s World’s Fair Photographed, “was to prove to the world that the Vikings did discover America.”88 Others contrasted the powerful Spanish empire of the past to U.S. military strength in the present. The three Spanish caravels were anchored off the shore at Jackson Park, claimed White and Igleheart, “in such a manner as to place them in contrast with the model battle-ship which represents the naval architecture of this century.”89 A stationary replica of the U.S. battleship Illinois was in fact constructed close to the U.S. Government Building off the North Pier, open, like the Viking ship and Spanish caravels, for touring by visitors at the fair. On September 12, 1893, the caravels were ceremonially offered to the United States as a gift from the Spanish people, and Cosmopolitan magazine published an image shortly thereafter of two ships mirrored in the lenses of a pair of eyeglasses (fig. 48). If the reader imagines donning these aids to vision, Columbus’s largest ship, the Santa María, sails proudly west toward America, while the U.S. battleship Illinois steams (implicitly) east toward Spain, five years before the Spanish-­ American War. William Dean Howells, author of the “Letters of an Altrurian Traveller,” in which this illustration appeared, was deeply critical of U.S. materialism and saw in the Beaux-Arts architecture of the World’s Columbian Exposition an alternate vision for the future, if only the United States would abandon the imperialism of countries like fifteenth-century Spain and turn instead toward more altruistic (although equally imaginary) Greco-Roman ideals. At the World’s Columbian Exposition, the United States and Spain employed a variety of exhibition practices—presentations that combined traditional display techniques with interactive architectural environments and, in the case of the caravels, exhibits that actually moved from place to place. Spanish officials aligned their displays with the celebrated year 1492, bringing together architectural sources and exhibiting products from the many heterogeneous regions of Spain, including castizo Castile, industrious Catalonia, North Africa–inflected Andalusia, and colonized Cuba. They also linked their historical exhibits to the contemporary marketplace, but the material presence and ephemeral nature of the Spanish displays, the fabrication of spaces that promoted the intermingling of authenticity with reproduction, provided U.S. viewers with places in which their own mediated history could keep Spanishness safely in the past. By contrasting, rather than linking, the past with the present, fairgoers from the United States marginalized Spain at the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893, and these sites became, in the words of historian Pierre Nora, lieux de mémoire, “simple and ambiguous, natural and artificial, at once immediately available in concrete

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Figure 48 The Santa María and the Illinois mirrored in eyeglasses, in William Dean Howells, “Letters of an Altrurian Traveller,” Cosmopolitan 16 (December 1893): 232.

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sensual experience and susceptible to the most abstract elaboration.”90 Memory replaced history, and those aspects of U.S. history no longer deemed relevant to the present disappeared. The Spanish displays in Chicago were destroyed at the close of the fair, and the caravels met a similar fate in the years that followed. Plans to bring them through the Panama Canal to San Francisco’s Panama-Pacific International Exposition in 1915 were abandoned when two of the ships began to sink.91 Along with these vessels, possibilities for another “America” likewise disappeared. Spanish links to the United States, memories that might have granted relevance to Spain, that might have underlined and reinforced the Spanishness of the nation, that might have provided welcome to Spanish-speaking Americans who began arriving in the United States in the early twentieth century, were largely forgotten in the predominant narrative about the nature of the nation.

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Plate 1  Dióscoro Puebla, Primer desembarco de Colón, 1862. Oil on canvas, 130 × 214 ½ inches (330 × 545 cm). Museo Nacional del Prado, PO6766. Photo © Museo Nacional del Prado.

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Plate 2  Antonio Gisbert,

El desembarco de los puritanos en América, 1863. Oil on canvas, 115 ¾ × 155 ½ inches (294 × 395 cm). Senado de España. Plate 3  Robert Weir,

Embarkation of the Pilgrims, 1837–43. Oil on canvas, 144 × 216 inches (365.8 × 548.7 cm). United States Capitol Rotunda. Photo: Architect of the Capitol.

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Plate 4  Lorenzo Vallés, La demencia de doña Juana de Castilla, 1866. Oil on canvas, 93 ¾ × 123 ¼ inches (238 × 313 cm). Museo Nacional del Prado, PO4669. Photo © Museo Nacional del Prado.

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Plate 5  Luis Jiménez Aranda, Lady at the Paris

Exposition, 1889. Oil on canvas, 47 ½ × 27 ⅞ inches (120.7 × 70.8 cm). Meadows Museum, Southern Methodist University, Dallas, Algur H. Meadows Collection, MM.69.24. Photo: Michael Bodycomb.

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Plate 6  Joan Planella i Rodríguez, La nena obrera, 1882. Oil on canvas, 70 ½ × 55 inches (179.4 × 140 cm). Private Collection.

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Plate 7  Antonio Gisbert, Fusilamiento de Torrijos y sus compañeros en las playas de

Málaga, 1887–88. Oil on canvas, 153 ½ × 236 ½ inches (390 × 601 cm). Museo Nacional del Prado, P04348. Photo © Museo Nacional del Prado.

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Plate 8  José Casado del Alisal, La leyenda del Rey

Monje (La campana de Huesca), 1880. Oil on canvas, 140 ¼ × 186 ½ inches (356 × 474 cm). Museo Nacional del Prado, P06751. Photo © Museo Nacional del Prado.

Plate 9  Luis Jiménez Aranda, Una sala del

hospital durante la visita del médico en jefe, 1889. Oil on canvas, 114 ¼ × 175 ¼ inches (290 × 445 cm). Museo Nacional del Prado, P07342. Photo © Museo Nacional del Prado.

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Plate 10  José Garnelo, Primer homenaje a Cristóbal Colón, 1892. Oil on canvas, 118 × 236 ¼ inches (300 × 600 cm). Museo Naval, Madrid, 01619.

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Plate 11  Armando García Menocal, Embarque de

Colón por Bobadilla, 1893. Oil on canvas, 121 ¾ × 182 ¾ inches (309 × 464 cm). Colección Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, Havana. Plate 12  Joaquín Sorolla, ¡Otra Margarita!, 1892. Oil on canvas, 51 ¼ × 78 ¾ inches (130.2 × 200 cm). Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum, Washington University in Saint Louis. Gift of Charles Nagel Sr., 1894.

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Plate 13  El reencuentro

de Argentina y España, ca. 1910. Colección CEDODAL.

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Plate 14  Ignacio Zuloaga, Vuelta de la vendimia, 1906. Oil on canvas, 78 ¾ × 74 inches (200 × 188 cm). Colección del Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, Buenos Aires, 2631.

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Plate 15 Eduardo Chicharro, El Ángelus, 1907. Oil on canvas, 48 ¾ × 56 ¾ inches (124 × 144 cm). Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, Santiago de Chile. Photo © Colección Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, Santiago de Chile.

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Plate 16 Joaquín Sorolla,

Remendando las redes, 1901. Oil on canvas, 63 ¾ × 51 ½ inches (162 × 131 cm). Museo Nacional de San Carlos, Mexico City.

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Plate 17  Randal W. Borough,

Portolá Festival, 1909. Courtesy of the California History Room, California State Library, Sacramento, California.

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Plate 18  Official Souvenir Folder N° 11, Panama-Pacific International Exposition, ca. 1915. Donald G. Larson Collection on International Expositions and Fairs, Special Collections Research Collection, California State University, Fresno, EXP915a.673pc-01.

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Plate 19  Panama

California Exposition (International), San Diego Cal. 1915, ca. 1910. Donald G. Larson Collection on International Expositions and Fairs, Special Collections Research Collection, California State University, Fresno, EXP9153.2pc.

Plate 20  Foreign and

Domestic Arts Building, 1914. Donald G. Larson Collection on International Expositions and Fairs, Special Collections Research Collection, California State University, Fresno, EXP9153.119pc-15.

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4   Reasserting Spain in America at the 1910 Centennial Exhibitions

J

o s é cle me nt e orozco objec ted l oud ly when officials in Mexico elected to celebrate their centenary of independence from Spain by supporting an exhibition of Spanish art. “We protested to the Secretariat of Instruction,” he wrote; “it was all very well to hold an Exposition of Spanish Art, but why did they give us, the Mexicans, nothing, when it was precisely our Independence that was being celebrated?”1 The government eventually responded to Orozco’s complaint, allocating a small amount of money to fund a secondary exhibition of Mexican painting in honor of the celebration. Argentina and Chile, like Mexico, also included exhibitions of Spanish painting in their commemorations of liberation from colonial rule, and the government in Madrid supported these efforts by sending official delegations to all three Latin Americans celebrations. It also agreed to help the Argentine project by providing a subvention to build a large pavilion to display Spanish industrial arts in Buenos Aires. Historian Javier Moreno Luzón attributes Spain’s paradoxical participation in these national celebrations to the confluence of three factors: the political and cultural movement known as hispanoamericanismo, self-affirming action fomented by the Spanish exile communities in each of these three countries, and Spanish foreign policy in the wake of the 1898 Spanish-American War.2 While the three Latin American republics used these events to promote their differing notions of American national identity, Spain saw them as an opportunity to reassert its presence in America. In contrast to the United States, where memories of Spain had become singular, oppositional, and pushed to the side, memories of Spain in the Americas were unfolding in multiple, complementary, and sometimes surprising ways. Each of the three centennial exhibitions of Spanish art took place in the context of unique and differing circumstances. They were also modeled in many

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respects on the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial and the 1889 Exposition Universelle de Paris, which likewise marked hundredth anniversaries of rebellion against authority. Argentina, Mexico, and Chile had all participated in the Philadelphia Centennial, sending exhibitions of mining, metallurgy, and agricultural products to the fair. The fine arts were more sparsely represented. Chile sent only a few works by Paris-trained sculptor Nicanor Plaza: a plaster bust of mineralogist Ignacio Domeyko and a full-sized bronze depicting an Araucanian youth playing the ball game known as chueca, works that aligned the Pacific nation with its natural resources and traditional pastimes.3 Argentina and Mexico sent more comprehensive displays and were given room in the annex to Memorial Hall. Six of the thirty-four paintings sent to represent Argentina, installed in a room next to Spain, were by French-born painter Ernest Charton. Several of these depicted sites in Chile, leaving the Argentine nation somewhat difficult to characterize.4 Mexico’s exhibition was the most comprehensive, including history paintings by Juan Cordero and landscapes by José María Velasco sent by the Mexican government.5 Cordero’s Columbus Before the Court of Ferdinand and Isabella (1850, Museo Nacional de Arte, Mexico City) brought the histories of Mexico, the United States, Italy, and Spain together in a single image; paintings by Ignacio Hernández and Joaquín Ramírez represented heroes of Mexican independence such as Miguel Hidalgo and Francisco Xavier Mina; and Santiago Rebull’s Death of Marat (1875, private collection) tied Mexico to French revolutionary politics. The Latin American republics participated even more fully in the Exposition Universelle of 1889. Several used public monies for the creation of impressive national pavilions, prominently sited at the base of the Eiffel Tower. The Argentines commissioned the largest of these buildings, the Pabellón Argentino, a glass and iron structure loosely modeled on London’s Crystal Palace. The Chileans erected a smaller but equally elegant domed edifice, likewise of iron and glass, and the Mexicans built a distinctive Aztec-inspired palace. The Argentine pavilion was carefully dismantled and later served for the display of fine art at the 1910 centenary in Buenos Aires.6 For these nations, the challenge in Paris was to construct buildings that negotiated the ever-shifting and unstable binaries of American and European, Indigenous and Hispanic, traditional and modern. The manner in which they did this varied considerably, and scholars—Mauricio Tenorio Trillo, Álvaro Fernández Bravo, and Carmen Norambuena Carrasco among them—have considered these issues for each of the three Latin American countries concerned.7 Chile and Argentina chose French architects for their buildings in Paris, while Mexico chose native sons; Henri Picq and Albert Ballu designed the pavilions for Chile and Argentina, while Antonio Peñafiel, in collaboration with Antonio de Anza, designed Mexico’s Aztec Palace. Paintings from these countries were shown in the national pavilions rather than in the Palace of Fine Arts. And while the

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Argentines and the Chileans (the former more successfully than the latter) presented themselves in Paris in a bid to attract European immigration to populate their bountiful lands, the Mexicans focused their efforts on the importation of foreign investment, the better to make use of a large Indigenous population. Fair organizers in Philadelphia and Paris developed elaborate systems of display that allowed each nation to exhibit material—from the fine and applied arts, manufactured goods, and machinery to food, agriculture, and horticulture— suggesting hierarchies of greater or lesser degrees of industrial development. In the grand international marketplaces of the world, each country promoted and differentiated itself by exhibiting its best-known and most readily commoditized merchandise. Whereas France and the United States showed off technology and mechanical products—the United States with the Corliss engine in 1876 and France with the Eiffel Tower in 1889—the Latin American republics relied upon natural resources: Chile its wine, guano, and nitrate, Argentina its beef, and Mexico its henequen, mineral wealth, and large workforce. Competitive jostling between Latin American nations occasionally got ugly, as when one Chilean promoted his country as a piece of Europe in Latin America, contrasting the residents of his country to the Mexicans thus: “although we are only two million people, we represent a population almost as large as Mexico’s, with its six million Indians, who are essentially useless and consequently more likely to combat civilization than accept it.”8 Between the U.S. and French centenaries of 1876 and 1889 and the Latin American anniversaries of 1910, such offensively prejudiced attitudes and hierarchies remained largely in place.

Buenos Aires While the 1876 Philadelphia and 1889 Paris centenary celebrations occurred in a single geographical location during a specific moment in time, the Latin American centenaries were spread across the hemisphere over more than a decade. Argentina, Chile, and Mexico, the nations that mounted exhibitions of Spanish art, chose to celebrate in 1910, along with Colombia and Venezuela. Ecuador commemorated a series of events extending from 1909 to 1922; Peru observed its declaration of independence in 1921; Brazil celebrated in 1922; and Uruguay scheduled events between 1925 and 1930.9 In addition to organizing ephemeral celebrations such as parades and exhibitions, many Latin American nations tied their festivities to significant city beautification and infrastructure improvements—the construction of museums and the installation of better transportation, lighting, water, and sewage systems, for example. Events and monuments were designed to create country-specific histories that would resonate with and bind together diverse populations that, depending upon the country, included new immigrants from

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Europe (as in Argentina and Chile) or large Indigenous and mixed-race communities (in Mexico) that were living and working in regions constituted only during the course of the nineteenth century as independent, sovereign nations. The creation of national borders was a messy process, and several wars had erupted as countries jockeyed for natural resources and positioned themselves strategically for future development. Chile, for example, annexed mineral-rich regions of Peru and Bolivia in 1879 during the War of the Pacific, agreeing during that conflict to cede most of Patagonia to Argentina in return for neutrality. Newspapers and magazines covered the 1910 centenary events extensively, and rivalries continued as each country strove to show itself off to the world. Invitations were sent to governments in Latin America and abroad, and the importance of the officials sent to attend opening ceremonies became a marker of the political and economic consequence of each host country. The Spanish government responded to Argentina’s invitation by sending the Infanta Isabel de Borbón, aunt of King Alfonso XIII, to Buenos Aires. Isabel was thirteen years older than her high-spirited sister Eulalia, who had caused such controversy at Chicago’s Columbian Exposition in 1893. Popularly known as “La Chata,” for her button nose, she was a highly respected member of the royal family, known for her charity work and aristocratic demeanor. While Isabel represented the monarchy, Juan Pérez Caballero, an illustrious representative of Spain’s Liberal Party, represented the government. Several cultural representatives, among them the painter Gonzalo Bilbao and the writer Alfredo Escobar, who had been with the Spanish delegation in Philadelphia, also accompanied the entourage. Escobar wrote the chronicle describing the royal visit.10 The Spanish wanted to make a good impression in Argentina, a wealthy nation then attracting a large number of immigrants from Europe. For their part, notes art historian Rodrigo Gutiérrez Viñuales, the Argentine people were responding to changing political circumstances and this influx of new immigrants, many of whom were coming from Spain, by replacing their earlier rejection of Spanish colonization with a broadly defined, generalized identification.11 The celebrations in Argentina were timed to begin on May 25, the anniversary of the deposition of the Spanish viceroy in 1810, and to highlight the events of July 9, when independence was formally declared in Tucumán six years later. Activities and exhibitions continued to open throughout the rest of the year. More than any other centenary in Latin America, the Argentine celebration came closest to the model of an international world’s fair, including five large exhibitions devoted to agriculture, industry, transportation, hygiene, and the fine arts. Postcards and souvenirs depicted the renewed love between republican Argentina, with liberty cap on the left, and restoration Spain, with crown on the right (plate 13). In one postcard, the women carry flags representing their respective nations and wear

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long gowns, Argentina’s decorated with the sun of May, which marks the beginning of independence, and Spain’s with the emblematic castle of Castile. Argentina stands before an agricultural landscape populated by cattle and ships, the transportation mode by which Argentine meat was shipped across the Atlantic, while the industrialization of Europe, suggested by machine parts and factories, rather oddly belies Spain’s long association with agriculture. Reconciliation with its former colonial master demonstrated the new republic’s physical and cultural maturity. Rather than appearing as mother Spain and daughter Argentina, the two countries are depicted as sisters. A single horizon places Spain and Argentina within the same, albeit differentiated, landscape, and the women—of similar size, age, and skin tone—share the space equally. This vision of Argentine ethnicity, like that promoted by nineteenth-century Argentine president Domingo Faustino Sarmiento, aligned the future of the country with the promotion of European, not Indigenous, ideals. Argentina’s “Conquest of the Desert,” spanning the 1870s and early 1880s, had brutally exterminated most Indigenous communities in Patagonia some thirty years earlier.12 Members of Argentina’s Spanish colonia—residents of Buenos Aires who were born on the Iberian Peninsula and still identified strongly with Spain—were determined to sponsor an impressive public display on this important occasion, electing to erect a large civic sculpture as a gift to the city. Catalan sculptor Agustín Querol produced maquettes for the marble and bronze monument, which featured the allegorical figure of Argentina standing atop an elaborately ornamented base.13 The project was delayed repeatedly, however: first when Querol died and Cipriano Folgueras, who had been awarded a medal at the Chicago World’s Columbian Exposition, took over the monument in December 1909, and again when Folgueras passed away two years later; a third delay occurred when a large number of sculptures destined for the monument and shipped from Spain were lost at sea in 1916. The work was not inaugurated until 1927. A gigantic structure almost twenty-five meters in height, it stands today at the intersection of Avenida del Libertador and Avenida General Sarmiento, in a residential section of the city. The Pabellones de España (figs. 49 and 50) were an even more ambitious project mounted by the Spanish colonia. Julián García Núñez, an Argentine-born architect schooled in Barcelona by Lluís Domènech i Montaner, was commissioned to design the temporary structure, which was constructed on land provided by the Sociedad Rural Argentina, an organization devoted to promoting the country’s agricultural interests. This flamboyant complex included two symmetrical wings in which the organizers installed food and industrial products on the left and right, respectively. Books, furniture, and a few artworks were displayed in the central pavilion at the back, and privately funded kiosks (not included in García’s architectural rendering) offered consumables like ice cream, cider, and

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mineral water in the inner courtyard. A pamphlet sent to businessmen in Spain encouraged them to send their products to Buenos Aires “in order to become great and strong again, not in terms of territorial expansion or military power, but in terms of industry and commerce.”14 Many Spanish immigrants seeking economic opportunities in Argentina arrived from the northeastern provinces of the peninsula, and the stylistic choice of Catalan modernisme aligned Buenos Aires with Barcelona and the industrialized regions of Spain. The style, notes architectural historian Ramón Gutiérrez, also expressed a desire to project a modern and dynamic image in the years following losses inflicted by the Spanish-American War of 1898.15 Vendors in Spain, like Spanish residents in Buenos Aires, were indeed eager to sell their merchandise to Argentina’s burgeoning and prosperous population. Organizers requested a building subvention from the Spanish government, and while the government procrastinated, wealthy members of the colonia—chief among them José Artal, Tarragona-born president of the Spanish Chamber of Commerce in Buenos Aires—underwrote the construction, fully expecting to be reimbursed. The pavilions opened on October 29, five months after Isabel’s visit, but most of the money never arrived. The Chamber of Commerce, threatened by lawsuits and demands for payment in Buenos Aires, was still sending pleas for repayment to the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs seven years later.16 Artal, too, suffered a serious financial setback; he left Argentina and retired to San Sebastian

Figure 49  Julián García Núñez, Pabellones de España, in Revista Técnica, Suplemento de Arquitectura 68 (March– April 1911): 27. Photo: Rovere and Sandller.

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in 1914. Spain’s economic situation during the first decade of the twentieth century was precarious, and politicians in Madrid, despite their best intentions, had more urgent problems to address—long-simmering conflict in North Africa, anarchist worker strikes in Catalonia, and continuing anger over military inscription policies—than an industrial fair on the other side of the Atlantic. In addition to supporting the Pabellones de España, José Artal played a key role in the organization of the Spanish exhibition of fine arts, bringing attention to the economic motives behind the mounting of such displays. The Exposición Internacional de Arte del Centenario, accompanied by an illustrated catalogue, opened on July 11, two months after the first official ceremonies in May. Everything was for sale, and a complete list of works sold was published shortly after the exhibition closed.17 In addition to work from Spain, this international exhibition included a display of Argentine artwork, along with paintings and sculptures from a number of western European and Scandinavian nations, the United States, Chile, and

Figure 50  En el Stadium, 1910. Archivo General de Palacio, drawer 12, file 4 (10178778). Photo © Patrimonio Nacional.

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Figure 51  Pabellón argentino en el centro de la Exposición, in La Ilustración Española y Americana 54 (January 15, 1910): 21.

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Brazil. The inclusion of paintings from Latin America in the fine arts exhibition hall was a significant gesture, for when Argentina, Mexico, and Chile had displayed paintings at the fairs in Philadelphia and Paris, they were relegated to secondary spaces and national pavilions. The largest and most prominent displays sent by these countries to France had included raw materials and manufactured products, laying claim to their inclusion in the international market but doing little to suggest their importance as originators of fine art and culture. The construction of national identity, however, rests as much on the production of cultural goods as on raw materials and natural resources.18 Argentine planners made the connection between the Paris World’s Fair and their own centenary celebration explicit in the placement of the temporary structure constructed by Emilio Lavigne in 1910 to house the fine arts, which literally embraced the Argentine pavilion, built originally for the 1889 Exposition and subsequently reconstructed on the Plaza de San Martín in downtown Buenos Aires (fig. 51).19

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Figure 52  Plano de la distribución definitiva de los locales, in Revista Técnica, Suplemento de Arquitectura 59 (November 1909): 164. Photo: Rovere and Sandller.

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Plans for the exhibition show visitors entering through the Argentine national section and passing through three large galleries before turning ninety degrees to the left to view works from Chile and the United States (fig. 52). These were the American nations with which Argentina wished to align itself most closely: Chile for its geographical proximity (and predominantly European ethnic composition) and the United States for its high degree of industrialization. Each country was responsible for the interior decoration of its own galleries, and Argentine artists Carlos Ripamonte and Pío Collivadino were responsible for integrating the overall plan. The official organizing committee for Spain’s display was composed of five esteemed academics—Gonzalo Bilbao, who also accompanied Isabel de Borbón on her visit to Buenos Aires, painters Alejandro Ferrant, Antonio Muñoz Degrain, and José Villegas, and sculptor Mariano Benlliure. Artal, responsible for Spanish sales in Buenos Aires, worked behind the scenes to encourage painters and sculptors from Spain to submit artwork to the exhibition. The 1910 Spanish display in Argentina included more than 250 works, with Ignacio Zuloaga, a Basque painter associated with the “generation of ’98,” filling a room of his own (fig. 53). A group of novelists, poets, and philosophers who closely linked the region of Castile to Spanish national identity, the generation of ’98 sought to understand the deep moral, political, and economic crisis that followed Spain’s loss of its colonies in Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines in the “disaster of 1898.”20 Zuloaga received unexpected attention when newspapers in Argentina erroneously reported his death; several sales were subsequently annulled when purchasers realized that it was actually the artist’s father, Plácido Zuloaga, a master of damascene work, who had died. But despite the embarrassing mix-up, Zuloaga was honored with one of the three Medals of Honor awarded to Spain, and his Return from the Harvest (plate 14) was one of three paintings purchased by the Argentine government at the close of the exhibition. Zuloaga’s The Witches of San Millán (1907) and Spanish Women and an English Woman on a Balcony (ca. 1907), both at the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, Buenos Aires, were also acquired by the national museum at this time. Return from the Harvest depicts three men returning from a hard day’s work picking grapes, their spirits lifted by wine. The youngest, holding a basket of grapes and a jug in his hands, smiles torpidly at his companions, while the oldest, on the right, stoops low under the weight of a gigantic animal skin filled with the inebriating liquid. The presence of this work in Argentina, along with a large number of other Spanish paintings, attests to a well-developed relationship between commercial art dealers in Buenos Aires and artists on the Iberian Peninsula.21 Artal, who had been importing Spanish paintings to Argentina since 1897, was only one of several individuals involved in the trade, for the Argentines had been working to promote the fine arts since at least the 1870s.22 The quality of work being sent to

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Latin America was of some concern to Argentine critics and collectors, who occasionally complained that the Europeans were sending only those paintings that failed to sell in Paris or the United States.23 Artal apparently approached Zuloaga about sending his work to the centenary after arguing with Joaquín Sorolla, Spain’s most successful painter at the time, about just this issue.24 After Sorolla refused to send anything at all, Zuloaga, who initially expressed doubts about Artal’s request, eventually filled the gap.25 Sorolla and Zuloaga were often seen as two sides of Spanish identity; whereas Sorolla painted sunshine, Zuloaga depicted shadow.26 Struggling to define and reassess the Spanish nation in the aftermath of the Spanish-American War, artists like Zuloaga abandoned the painting of modern French life and turned to subjects of traditional Spanish customs (costumbres). Argentine viewers, at the same time, began buying Spanish paintings. While regional nationalisms on the peninsula became less important when immigrants

Figure 53  Sala Zuloaga, in Francisco Camba and Juan Más y Pi, Los españoles en el centenario argentino (Buenos Aires: Mestres, 1910), 110.

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left Spain for another land, they still retained some relevance; paintings of Castile, in addition to depictions of Asturias, the Basque Country, Catalonia, and Valencia, were most popular with new residents of Argentina who sought to retain links to their homeland. Andalusia, a region from which few immigrants hailed and that non-Spanish tourists frequently conflated with the entire country, was less popular; Artal even returned a gypsy painting to Sorolla in 1904, explaining that the Argentines “hate everything that smells of flamenco because the Sevillians have infested everything.”27 After the war of 1898, many Latin American residents began to see Spain and its offer of hispanismo as more appealing than the expansionist policy of Pan-American unity promoted by the United States.28 Uruguayan literary critic José Enrique Rodó’s rejection of the United States, which he equated with the utilitarian materialism of Shakespeare’s Caliban in his famous 1900 essay Ariel, emerged from this political and cultural climate. Zuloaga was not the only artist to benefit from Sorolla’s absence, for Barcelona-­ born Hermenegildo Anglada Camarasa also sent a large, if controversial, display of work to Buenos Aires. Anglada’s paintings do not appear in the first edition of the catalogue, although they were apparently shipped in six crates from Europe in time for the opening.29 Argentine critic Augusto Gozalbo claimed in Athinae, a periodical devoted to the fine arts, that because the Spanish jurors did not include Anglada’s work as part of their display, it was shown in the international section of the Centenary Exposition instead.30 Gozalbo provided a spirited defense of Anglada, illustrating six of his paintings, including the magisterial Peasants of Gandía (1909, Museo de Bellas Artes de Asturias) in a lengthy review (fig. 54). The painting depicted a popular fiesta in Valencia, a regional subject that Sorolla likewise painted at about this time, but Anglada exaggerated the color far beyond anything done by the older artist. Rejecting the by now well-established conventions of impressionism and modernisme, Anglada was partaking instead of postimpressionism and the new Mediterranean sensibilities of Catalan noucentisme. While Gozalbo praised Anglada’s work, others found his brilliant color, expressive brushwork, and decorative approach shocking and strident.31 Like Zuloaga, Anglada had recently shifted his subject matter from the representation of stylish Parisians to the folk traditions of Valencia and Mallorca. He too received a Medal of Honor, and although the national museum acquired just one small painting, his studio became a magnet for Latin American painters traveling to Paris and Mallorca, where he settled in the years after the centenary.32 Argentine painters, like artists in Spain during the early twentieth century, were engaged in a heated debate about nationalism and art, and Anglada’s fusion of a modern style with national subjects resonated strongly with young painters like Cesáreo Bernaldo de Quirós, who caused his own commotion by exhibiting at the Centenary Exposition a series of paintings dominated by color—in this

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Figure 54 “Hermen Anglada—Valencia,” in Augusto Gozalbo, “Hermen Anglada y Camarasa,” Athinae: Revista Argentina de Bellas Artes 3 (March 1911): 66.

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case violet—and who likewise received a Medal of Honor.33 Gozalbo, who preceded his essay on Anglada with a review of Quirós’s work, praised the Argentine painter’s “decorative symbolism,” calling him a “true and personal impressionist.”34 Whereas the Pabellones de España constructed to house the Spanish display of manufactured goods were designed in the style of Catalan modernisme, painters in Spain and Argentina were beginning to embrace the international avant-garde.

Santiago de Chile Chile’s celebration, scheduled later in the year to coincide with the anniversary of the meeting of its first independent junta on September 18, 1810, was much less elaborate than Argentina’s. It was in fact almost canceled, for the president of the country, Pedro Montt, left for emergency medical treatment before the inauguration of festivities and died unexpectedly in Germany. To make matters worse, Vice President Elías Fernández fell sick and died two weeks later, leaving the country twelve days from the opening ceremonies without an elected leader. Minister of Justice and Public Education Emiliano Figueroa stepped in as master of ceremonies, and the Chilean elite quickly put forward a new president, ostensibly providing the world with a fine example of a smooth democratic process. But the rapidity and unanimity with which this election occurred (Ramón Barros Luco was elected with a 98 percent majority) obscured a growing fissure between the Chilean oligarchy and the large number of poor Chileans struggling to make ends meet. Historian Macarena Ibarra points out that Santiago was a divided city in 1910, with a small part of the population living in modern comfort and the rest in misery.35 Social critics such as Luis Emilio Recabarren used the centenary to point out that independence in Chile had benefited the wealthy, but not the workers. The only head of state to attend Chile’s opening ceremonies was Argentine president José Figueroa Alcorta. Spain sent a career diplomat who had served earlier as Spanish minister in Chile, José Brunetti y Gayoso, the Duke of Arcos, to represent the government. Centenary festivities in Chile began on September 12, peaked six days later, and continued through the end of the month. Popular magazines like Zig-Zag published special issues, and the government sponsored military parades, a naval review in Valparaiso, a Te Deum in the Santiago Cathedral, automobile and balloon races, and a plenary session of the National Congress. José Enrique Rodó, who had published Ariel ten years earlier and continued to be troubled by U.S. interference in Latin American affairs, spoke at this last event. Responding to the territorial wars that had marked postindependence Latin American history, Rodó delivered one of his most compelling calls for a unified Latin America. “In addition to celebrating the centenary of Chile, Argentina, and Mexico,” he proclaimed,

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“I feel and acknowledge the centenary of Spanish America. In spirit as well as in history, there is only one true Hispanic American centenary; because in spirit and in history, there is only one Hispanic American revolution.”36 One means to Latin American unity was rapprochement with Spain. Relations between Spain and Chile had been damaged considerably by the Spanish bombing of Valparaiso in 1866, but they gradually improved during the course of the late nineteenth century. This was a period of tremendous economic growth for Chile, as territorial gains in the north made during the 1879 War of the Pacific had provided this Latin American nation with rich deposits of saltpeter (potassium nitrate), a mineral used to make both fertilizer and gunpowder. But Chile, surrounded by sea, mountains, and desert, was not particularly well connected to Europe or the rest of the Americas. The trip from Europe to Chile took forty days, whereas the trip to Argentina could be made, less expensively, in twenty-five. Chile’s population grew from 1,083,800 in 1843 to 3,249,297 in 1907, but only 0.5 percent of all European immigration to the Americas went to Chile. Forty-six percent went to Argentina and 3 percent to Mexico.37 As in Argentina, several of the foreign colonias commissioned civic sculptures to beautify the city of Santiago during the centenary year. The Germans erected a fountain shaped like the prow of a boat; the Italians, a monument to the revolution; the French, a monument to liberty; and the Spanish, a sculpture dedicated to sixteenth-century soldier and poet Alonso de Ercilla (fig. 55). Ercilla had fought for Spain against the Indigenous inhabitants in Chile and composed an important Chilean national epic, La Araucana. The “pacification of Araucania,” as it was called by official government sources, continued until the early 1880s, when the remaining Mapuche were forcibly resettled on reducciones, or reserves, in the south.38 The 1910 centenary monument, designed by Catalan sculptor Antonio Coll y Pi, who had arrived in Santiago four years earlier to teach at the School of Decorative Arts, was well received when unveiled at a morning ceremony attended on September 19 by Figueroa, the Spanish ambassador, and enthusiastic members of Chile’s Spanish colonia. Ercilla and his muse are racially differentiated—Ercilla has a wide brow, aquiline nose, and elegantly styled beard and moustache, while his companion is depicted with a broad nose, wide-set eyes, and full lips—but the female gendering of the Indigenous Araucanian inspiring the European conquistador poses no threat to state-promoted Eurocentric Chilean identity. Considerably less elaborate than the gift to Buenos Aires, the piece was erected in a small plaza near the downtown park, the Parque Cousiño, now known as the Parque O’Higgins, in which many of the centenary events were held. Concerns during the centenary about the contemporary reception of sculptures erected earlier in Santiago appeared often in the popular press. ZigZag, for example, published a cartoon by Julio Bozzo, known professionally

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Figure 55  Antonio Coll y Pi, Don Alonso de Ercilla, 1910. Gift of the colonia española to the city of Santiago de Chile. Photo by author.

as Moustache, depicting the equestrian monument of Chilean independence fighter Bernardo O’Higgins (fig. 56). The original bronze, designed in 1872 by French sculptor Albert Carrier-Belleuse shortly after Spain’s attack on Valparaiso, includes a hapless Spanish soldier trampled beneath the feet of O’Higgins’s rearing mount. The text of the Zig-Zag cartoon seeks to soften such anti-Spanish messaging: “It has been suggested that the Spaniard beneath O’Higgins’s horse should be removed in order to avoid offending the Mother Country. But here is a simpler solution: simply cover the fallen soldier with a traditional poncho and cap in order to turn him into an ordinary Chilean.” A tongue-in-cheek suggestion, the change of clothing may have taken care of the Spanish problem. But it also suggested a second, less humorous Chilean reality, for according to advocates for workers’ rights, it was the ordinary working-class Chilean who was being trampled beneath the feet of the Chilean elite in 1910. Social unrest in

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Figure 56  Moustache, Monumentos ofensivos, in Zig-Zag, June 25, 1910.

Chile—from meat strikes to work stoppages—had already led to several violent confrontations in the years leading up to the centenary. The lower portion of the cartoon, below O’Higgins, offered a solution for a second problematic sculpture, this one by French sculptor Jean-Joseph Perraud, that had been erected earlier in the city; in this case, the cartoonist suggested, the Spanish-style cloak dragging unceremoniously on the ground behind conservative Chilean statesman Diego Portales should simply be sawed off.

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Figure 57  Vista del Palacio de Bellas Artes, in Exposición Internacional de Bellas Artes de 1910: Catálogo oficial ilustrado (Santiago: Imprenta Barcelona, 1910), frontispiece.

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Cultural sensitivities were also at play in Chile’s Exposición Internacional de Bellas Artes, which opened with an illustrated catalogue on September 17 in the newly completed Palacio de Bellas Artes, a Beaux-Arts structure designed by French-trained Chilean Emilio Jéquier as the new home for the national museum and school of fine arts (fig. 57). The inauguration of this building, its façade loosely based on the Petit Palais built for the Exposition Universelle of 1900,39 further aligned the Chilean centenary with the history of world’s fairs. Dividing the museum into sections, the organizing committee placed the Chilean display on the second floor in the center, surrounded by France, the country to which wealthy Chileans looked for cultural inspiration, Argentina, and Brazil (fig. 58). The Spanish display was divided between two galleries on the periphery and a third gallery below. Alberto Mackenna Subercaseaux, named commissioner-­ general for the exhibition and responsible for promoting the centenary during an extended journey through Europe, credits Fernando Álvarez de Sotomayor, a Spanish artist from Galicia hired in 1908 to serve as professor of painting in the Academy of Fine Arts, for suggesting that Chile organize an international exhibition to celebrate its centenary year.40 Sotomayor, according to historian of Chilean art Ricardo Bindis, was frustrated by the privileging of French culture in Chile and used his new position at

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Figure 58  First- and second-floor plans, in Exposición Internacional de Bellas Artes de 1910: Catálogo oficial ilustrado (Santiago: Imprenta Barcelona, 1910), 4–5.

the academy to promote modern Spanish art as an alternative to “foreign” French styles.41 Sotomayor provided Mackenna with introductions to artist friends and painters Manuel Benedito and Eduardo Chicharro, both of whom were placed on Spain’s organizing committee, and encouraged his colleagues in Europe to fill the Spanish section with paintings that presented the many regions of Spain to the people of Chile. Sotomayor exhibited three of his own elegant portraits in the Spanish section as well. These portraits, along with four paintings by Benedito, four by Chicharro, two by Sorolla, and one by Zuloaga, were among the 101 works gathered from the Iberian Peninsula. Despite Sotomayor’s efforts, Mackenna’s work was hampered by assumptions about Chile’s lack of cultural consequence, a prejudice prevalent both within the country and abroad. Mackenna had had a humorous (and embarrassing) experience in Spain when he visited Sorolla’s studio to invite him to show his work at the exhibition. While Sotomayor’s introduction guaranteed cooperation from Benedito, Chicharro, and others, Sorolla made it clear that he was too busy to send anything to Chile. When he arrived at the studio, Mackenna recalled, Sorolla received him coldly, saying that he had nothing to send and that his public was in the United States, where he could earn fistfuls of money. “Sorolla dreamed only of dollars and looked with disdain at the feeble Chilean peso,” Mackenna wrote in his

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memoir of the trip. He left in despair, for a painting by Sorolla, even a second-rate work unworthy of the U.S. market, would make his Spanish exhibition complete. Novelist Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, like Sorolla from Valencia and determined to change his compatriot’s mind, accompanied Mackenna on a second visit several days later. “Aren’t you an ungrateful dog,” remarked Blasco Ibáñez to Sorolla upon entering the studio. “Don’t you remember that you bought your first frock coat with Chilean money? Don’t you remember [Chilean collector Rafael] Errázuriz [Urmeneta], who once paid you a thousand duros for a group of paintings when you usually earned only a hundred pesetas?” “Of course, you are going to send a few paintings to the exhibition in Chile,” continued the novelist, who promptly climbed up on a chair, removed two canvases from the wall, and offered them to Mackenna. Half-angry, half-amused, Sorolla sputtered his objections. Upon leaving the house, Blasco Ibáñez turned again to his old friend and smilingly invited him to dinner.42 As in Argentina, the Chilean government allocated four hundred thousand francs, a significant amount of money, for the acquisition of art destined for its national museum.43 Although nineteen works each were acquired from France and England, compared to only twelve from Spain, the total amount spent on art from Spain significantly surpassed England’s total and equaled France’s; Spain and France together accounted for almost half the budget. Both Mackenna and Sotomayor were involved in the decisions, and neither Sorolla nor Zuloaga was on the final list. But Sotomayor’s friends Benedito and Chicharro were included, and Chicharro’s The Angelus (plate 15), a dark interior depicting six Basque men at prayer, hung for many years in a place of honor in the new museum. Because of the difficulty of pulling together an international jury of artists in Santiago, the commission decided to give all participants in the exposition a commemorative medal. Only Chilean artists, or foreigners resident in Chile for more than ten years, were eligible for the competition, and the prizes went to well-established rather than to young, up-and-coming artists.44 Chileans, again like the Argentines, were concerned about what they perceived as a lack of originality in their art and the need to develop their own national school. Ricardo Richon Brunet, the French-born author of the centenary catalogue essay on the history of art in Chile, claimed that Chilean art only began to develop with the 1843 arrival of the French portrait painter Raymond Monvoisin. The Academy of Fine Arts was founded to educate young Chilean artists in the neoclassical tradition several years later, in 1849. Pedro Lira, the first Chilean-born director, also studied in Paris, and students were invariably sent to France after beginning their training at home. Sotomayor argued that Chileans who wanted to develop their own national culture needed to stop looking to France and begin acknowledging their Spanish heritage. Even Richon Brunet, in his essay on

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Chilean art, acknowledged Spain’s central position in relation to contemporary Chilean art: “How can Chile not have artistic instincts, a nation that springs in large part from the Spain of Velázquez, of Murillo, of Goya, of Cervantes, and of Calderón, the magnificent trunk upon which has been grafted branches of all the people of Europe, the elegance and taste of the French, the gravity of the German, the classicism of the Italian, and the refinement of the English?”45 The Spanish were clearly in a position to reassert themselves in America. The Chileans had claimed to be Europeans transplanted to Latin America at the Exposition Universelle of 1889, and Indigenous cultural production is notably absent from Richon Brunet’s history of Chilean art as well. Young Chilean painters coming of age during the centenary year, a group that studied with Sotomayor and became known as the “generación del centenario,” painted traditional Chilean subjects in a cautiously modernist style similar to that found in the Spanish paintings exhibited in 1910.46 Art historian Gloria Cortés Aliaga argues that Chilean painters accepted Spanish modernism more readily than the radical French avantgarde because, like the Spanish modernists, they still admired the academic tradition.47 These young men, among them artists such as Arturo Gordon, explored with rapid brushstrokes such Euro-Chilean (rather than overtly Indigenous) folk customs as the funerary wake for a young child.

Mexico City The demographics of Mexico in 1910 were significantly different from those in Argentina and Chile. This region during the pre-Hispanic period had been the site of large, urbanized Indigenous cultures, and when parish priest Miguel Hidalgo called for independence from Spain in the early nineteenth century, the population of Mexico consisted of 2.5 million Indigenous inhabitants, 1.2 million mixed-race mestizos, 1 million European (primarily Spanish) Creoles, and 70,000 Spaniards.48 Surnames from Italy, Germany, England, and France, common in Argentina and Chile, are rare in Mexico, and although immigration continued over the course of the nineteenth century, the ratio of Indigenous, mixed-race, and Spanish Creole inhabitants remained roughly the same. After independence, power, influence, and wealth resided largely in the hands of the Creole elite. The Mexican president Porfirio Díaz, despite his birth as the mestizo son of a Creole father and Indigenous Mixtec mother, promoted European liberal ideals and foreign investment in the infrastructure of the country. Joining the military in 1846, Díaz rose to the rank of general and was elected president of Mexico in 1884. He employed an iron fist in order to remain in power for almost three decades, through the 1910 Centennial and until the outbreak of the Mexican Revolution. Mexican elites looked to France when making plans for the 1910

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celebration, and several had hoped for a world’s fair similar to the 1889 Exposition Universelle.49 Centenary events were planned for the month of September, timed to coincide with the anniversary of the “Grito de la Independencia” delivered by Miguel Hidalgo, the priest from Dolores who gathered troops to march against the Spanish. The Gran Desfile Histórico, a grand historical parade held the day before this September 16 celebration, epitomized the government’s positivist view of history, one that systematically moved from what was deemed an unsophisticated past toward a modern present. Civic parades like this one, note historians Javier Moreno and Rodrigo Gutiérrez, functioned essentially as “secularized versions of religious processions.”50 The performance of history—with costumes, pageantry, and a linear narrative structure—was designed to prompt a deep and emotional response on the part of both participants and observers. Genaro García, who compiled the Crónica oficial de las fiestas del primer centenario, called it the most elaborate and meticulously planned of the many commemorative events sponsored by the Mexican government in honor of the centenary.51 Divided into three sections—conquest, the viceroyalty, and independence— the spectacle employed a cast of several thousand marching down the Paseo de la Reforma, turning right along the Avenida Juárez past the Alameda to the National Palace in the Plaza de la Constitución. “By tracing these streets and avenues,” historian Mauricio Tenorio Trillo explains, “the parades occupied public space that was at the same time an urban utopia and a conceptualization of the nation’s history.”52 The route passed the Spanish pavilion, along with several historical monuments, among them the Angel of Independence and the Benito Juárez Hemicycle, both inaugurated during the centenary year. Benito Juárez, a Zapotec Indian elected president of Mexico in 1858, is remembered for resisting the French occupation of 1864–67 and for his use of liberal reforms to modernize the country. Other statues, dedicated to Spanish monarch Carlos IV, Christopher Columbus, and Cuauhtémoc, the last Aztec emperor, also lined the route, and more than fifty thousand observers watched the procession from the sidewalks, streets, windows, and balconies.53 Each of the three historical periods was distilled to an elaborate reenactment of a singular event. The first was the meeting of Hernán Cortés and the Aztec emperor Montezuma (García spells his name Motecuhzoma in the Crónica oficial) outside the city of Tenochtitlan. Montezuma’s retinue consisted of some nineteen warriors carrying colorful plumed standards; fifty warriors; thirty-eight priests; the rulers of nearby kingdoms accompanied by twenty caballeros del sol (knights of the sun); fifteen noblemen; twenty high-ranking Indians, each surrounded by six warriors and two caballeros-tigres (tiger warriors); numerous vassals; and the emperor and his court. The photographer charged with documenting the event shot the emperor’s palanquin from the front; Montezuma is framed by an elaborate

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Figure 59  Desfile histórico—El Emperador Motecuhzoma, in Genaro García, Crónica oficial de las fiestas del primer centenario de la independencia de México (Mexico City: Talleres del Museo Nacional, 1911), 137.

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throne with a jaguar pelt draped before him (fig. 59). Curious onlookers, casually dressed young boys who peer at the camera and men in business suits, crowd close to the emperor’s litter, threatening to dislodge him from his precarious perch. The photograph of Cortés, by contrast, shows the conquistador striding confidently forward atop a spectacular white horse, protected on one side by a uniformed policeman and on the other by his loyal captains (fig. 60). He too was accompanied by a large retinue, including friars, soldiers carrying crossbows, musketeers, Tlaxcaltecan allies, and his Indigenous translator Doña Marina (Malintzin). Both photographs were taken on the streets of modern Mexico City, before the encounter between the two leaders took place. The meeting, as narrated by García, occurred in front of the National Palace, where President Díaz and his diplomatic guests were watching from the balcony. It was a spectacular scene: the costumes, some of which have been preserved, were brilliantly colored, embroidered, and included elaborate feather-work headdresses.54 Montezuma and his attendants, García was careful to point out, were selected from and portrayed by the purest types of the Indian race; white Creole students from the most elite schools in Mexico City played the roles of Cortés and his followers.55 Race determined what role one played in the Gran Desfile Histórico, reinscribing in this secularized religious procession the violence of the historical encounter onto present-day Mexicans. The second scene depicted the Spanish viceroy and a similarly large number of attendants in a procession known as the Paseo del Pendón, a civic event commemorating the imposition of Spanish rule and oath of loyalty to the Crown, while the final section of the parade—independence—concluded not with Hidalgo’s 1810 call to arms but with General Agustín Iturbide’s triumphant entry into the city in 1821 at the end of the Mexican War of Independence. Known also as Emperor Agustín I, Iturbide was the Mexican Creole who ended the war against Spain. He became president and then emperor of Mexico, but changing political alliances sent him into exile shortly thereafter. The decision to feature Iturbide rather than Hidalgo suggests both a reluctance to celebrate the beginning of a rebellion and a softening toward Spain. Pressure to include Iturbide, a figure whom many considered pro-Spanish, came from conservative quarters, and the Porfirian government, according to historian Annick Lempérière, tried to mute Hidalgo’s call for violence at popular events like the historical parade.56 Peace, not revolution, was the Porfirian goal for the centenary of independence in 1910. Although the government of Porfirio Díaz sponsored new public buildings, civic sculptures, parades, and a large number of parties, it did not include in its preliminary plans an international exhibition of painting and sculpture. As a result, a group of Spanish businessmen living in Mexico with little experience in fine art decided to step into the void. “Their love for our country,” explained the Mexican newspaper El Imparcial, “has resulted in the creation of a Central

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Spanish Centenary Commission, charged with studying the best way for the Spanish residents of Mexico to celebrate the glorious date of our first hundred years of independence.”57 Justo Sierra, Mexico’s minister of public instruction and fine art and a well-known Hispanophile, furthered the project by providing government land near the center of the city and thirty-five thousand Mexican pesos for construction of a temporary edifice on a prominent corner of the Avenida Juárez (fig. 61).58 Miguel Bertrán de Quintana, a Catalan architect who was visiting Mexico City to study its sanitation system, quickly designed the neo-Gothic structure, which, like the edifice in Buenos Aires, gestured toward an earlier era of Catalan economic success. Bertrán agreed as well to return to Spain, visit artists’ studios, and persuade Spanish painters to send their work to Mexico. The Oriental Steamship Company of Japan, known as Toyo Kisen Kaisha, hoping to expand its own

Figure 60  Desfile histórico—Hernán Cortés y sus capitanes, in Genaro García, Crónica oficial de las fiestas del primer centenario de la independencia de México (Mexico City: Talleres del Museo Nacional, 1911), 138.

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Figure 61  Méjico—Pabellón de la Exposición Española, in La Ilustración Española y Americana 54 (December 8, 1910): 326.

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exports to Mexico, organized a concurrent exhibition of Japanese decorative arts to complement the exhibition from Spain.59 La Exposición Española de Arte e Industrias Decorativas was open to the public for seven weeks, from September 9 until the first of November. In the absence of a catalogue, the exhibition is difficult to reconstruct, but installation photographs and newspaper reviews have allowed scholars to compile a provisional list of approximately 250 works, mostly paintings but also sculptures and architectural renderings.60 Decorative arts (ceramics, metalwork, and furniture) were displayed on the ground floor of the pavilion, and fine arts were above. Zuloaga sent at least three paintings, Benedito sent four, and Chicharro sent three. Sorolla, in a surprise gesture, sent eight; his rendition of Valencian fisherwomen mending nets is visible on the back wall of one gallery (plate 16 and fig. 62). The same photograph reveals Sorolla’s Fisherboy (1904, private collection), above and to the left, and his White Slave Trade (1895, Museo Sorolla), above and in the center. Chicharro’s Garden Party (1909, Museo Nacional de San Carlos) hangs prominently on the right wall. Many of the paintings depicted Spanish subjects, which appealed no doubt to the businessmen sponsoring the exhibition but were of less interest to artists, like Orozco, who hoped to promote Mexican painting during the centenary year.61

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Figure 62  Una vista de la galería oriental de la planta alta de la Exposición Española, in Genaro García, Crónica oficial de las fiestas del primer centenario de la independencia de México (Mexico City: Talleres del Museo Nacional, 1911), 243.

Although most of the paintings were available for purchase, the Spanish exhibition resulted in few sales. Unlike Buenos Aires, Mexico City did not have a well-developed system of commercial galleries responsible for developing a market for contemporary painting, or a large immigrant population that identified with Spain. When Telésforo García, a spokesperson for the Spanish community in Mexico City, was asked about the exhibition’s commercial failure, he hastened to explain, “We never proposed a utilitarian goal, a financial gain; but if we had harbored that objective, then I would have to say that the exhibition was a disaster. Why? Because of the public’s lack of appreciation for beauty? No, of course not. What caused and will cause for many more years the financial failure of great exhibitions of art in Mexico is simply the general level of poverty.”62 But García’s explanation is contradicted by the huge number of sales seen by organizers of the Japanese decorative arts exhibition;63 another factor may have been growing dissatisfaction with Porfirio Díaz and his government, popularly perceived as pro-Spanish. Tenorio Trillo attributes the Porfirian elite’s pro-­Hispanism to a generational shift in which midcentury anti-Spanish liberals were replaced by the científicos, a group of positivist thinkers who advised the president, and to antagonistic rhetoric against the “North American lion” (the United States).64

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Mexico’s embrace of Spain was also a means of glorifying the Creole, according to historian Rebecca Earle, who writes, “celebration of Spanish America’s Hispanic heritage was heir to a conservative vision of history which dated civilisation from the conquest, thereby explicitly excluding the pre-Columbian past.”65 Oblivious to resentment simmering beneath the surface of public opinion, the government compensated for low sales by allocating an additional 20,700 pesos for the purchase of eight paintings, among them Sorolla’s Mending the Nets, Chicharro’s Garden Party, and works by Benedito, Bilbao, and Villegas, for its national collection.66 Other public entities linked to the Mexican state purchased works as well: the National School of Fine Arts, for example, acquired José Garnelo’s monumental pictorial representation of great Spanish men throughout the ages, known as Spanish Culture over Time (ca. 1894, Museo Nacional de San Carlos). An only slightly smaller version of this imperialistic subject had been awarded a gold medal in 1894 by Madrid’s San Fernando Academy of Fine Arts.67 Hernán Cortés, Francisco Pizarro, and Vasco Núñez de Balboa, the first European to view the Pacific Ocean, all appear in the Mexican version of the subject. These purchases, with the exception of the two paintings by Benedito, which depicted peasants and farm laborers in Brittany, spoke loudly of Spain and its relevance in America. The complexity of Mexico’s relationship to Spain and such manifestations of Spanishness during the centenary year is revealed in a comparison of three printed sources from 1910: El Imparcial, a large-circulation Mexican daily partially financed by the Porfiriato;68 El Correo Español, a more modest newspaper published by and for the Spanish colonia; and a broadsheet designed by popular Mexican printmaker José Guadalupe Posada for mass circulation among the Mexican people. The images in El Imparcial depict Spain’s Marquis de Polavieja, an official of somewhat less importance than the Infanta Isabel, decorating General Porfirio Díaz with the Medal of Carlos III (fig. 63).69 A portrait of the Bourbon king and an enlarged illustration of the medal are immediately below. On the right is a photograph of the uniform worn by Mexican independence fighter José de Morelos, a relic held by Spain since his execution in 1815, and an image of Polavieja handing a box containing the uniform to General Díaz. The illustrations depict Díaz, quite a bit taller than Polavieja, with a robust head of white hair and, despite his eighty years, in much trimmer form, with considerable dignity and on equal terms with—on a higher visual plane than, in fact—his Spanish counterpart. El Correo Español, a small-circulation newspaper produced without illustrations for the Spanish expatriate community in Mexico, defined the relationship somewhat differently. Noting that all colonies, like children, need to assert their independence at some point in their history, El Correo claimed that “Spanish political domination ceased; but Spain remained latently alive in the soul of this

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Figure 63  México y España, in El Imparcial, September 18, 1910 (Sunday supplement), 1.

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new nation, in the customs, in the aspirations, in the ideals, and above all in the language in which it expresses its feelings and the spirit of its race. A century has passed; and one hundred years of evolution and progress have not only extinguished any of the lingering feelings of mistrust and prejudice that gave rise to the fight for independence, but they have also allowed for a renewal of the fraternal relations that shared blood and history demand.”70 The Spanish were looking for brotherhood, but some Mexicans were reluctant to accept the proffered hand. Posada’s broadsheet tells this third story (fig. 64). Depicting a centenary celebration that looks more like a quickly organized political demonstration than one of the carefully orchestrated parades sponsored by the Porfirian government, Posada’s image portrays diverse members of Mexican society waving placards of, from left to right, Benito Juárez, Miguel Hidalgo, and the Mexican eagle. Indeed, the celebration of Hidalgo’s 1810 insurrection presented a significant public relations challenge to Porfirio Díaz, a man who had held power for more than thirty years and who had jailed his opponent before being reelected during the centenary year.71 In the government-sponsored historical procession, remember, it was Agustín de Iturbide’s victorious entry into Mexico City at the end of the War of Independence—not Hidalgo’s uprising—that received top billing. And while Porfirian propaganda frequently juxtaposed Díaz and Juárez, and occasionally Hidalgo, the general is conspicuously absent from Posada’s illustration. Below this revealing image is an amusing piece of doggerel eulogizing Hidalgo and mocking the Spanish king. Given the climate, it is not surprising that Spanish-owned businesses became a target for mob violence when the Mexican Revolution erupted a few months later. Surprised and annoyed by news that the government was supporting an exhibition of Spanish painting, a group of young Mexican artists, including Orozco and headed by the mercurial Gerardo Murillo, later known as Dr. Atl, decided to organize their own display of Mexican art in the National School of Fine Arts. The Porfirian government allocated three thousand pesos, significantly less than the amount spent on the Spanish exhibition, to support this late addition to the centenary roster. The Mexican exhibition also lacked a catalogue, but vintage photographs and archival research again allow a partial reconstruction of the display.72 Saturnino Herrán’s Legend of the Volcanoes (1910, Pinacoteca del Ateneo Fuente, Saltillo) and Jorge Enciso’s now-lost painting Anáhuac, a Náhuatl name for the valley of Mexico City meaning “place situated in the water,” were two of several works depicting Indigenous subjects. The background of Enciso’s painting featured a large volcanic mountain, the expansive waters of Lake Texcoco, and a majestic nopal cactus spreading its branches across the surface of the painting; in the foreground was an Indigenous figure in headdress and loincloth, welcoming the dawn of a new day.73

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Figure 64  José Guadalupe Posada, El centenario de la independencia de México en el año de 1910, 1910. DeGolyer Library, Southern Methodist University, Dallas, Texas. Mexico: Photographs, Manuscripts, and Imprints, Broadside F1234.P687 1903.

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Fausto Ramírez, a historian of Mexican painting, has argued that the paintings produced and exhibited in 1910 at Mexico’s National School of Fine Arts were surprisingly modern for an early twentieth-century academy.74 Ramírez attributes this to curricular reforms in drawing and a breakdown in the hierarchy of genres, such that drawing had become both personal and expressive, while landscape and genre paintings were as popular as history painting, if not more so. Even when painting a historical subject, artists like Enciso explored its poetic rather than its moralistic potential. Time was relative, past was fused with present (and future), and modern styles were used to portray traditional (American) subjects. The promise of mestizaje, a postrevolutionary ideal through which Indigenous and European citizens could create the new mixed race of a modern Mexican nation, is likewise nascent in such protorevolutionary works of art. The critic Ricardo Gómez Robelo, writing specifically about Enciso’s painting, compared the figure’s dramatic gesture with “a triumphal salute to the light of the new day; one could say that as in Aztec ritual, [the figure] is praising the birth of a new year; even more significantly, the gesture is one of praise for la raza, the entire nation that beats within his heart.”75 Spanishness in Mexico was complicated by its large Indigenous and mestizo populations.

A Renewal of Fraternal Relations To position the exhibition of Mexican art in direct opposition to the Spanish one, despite Orozco’s caustic introductory comment, oversimplifies this history.76 When teachers and students at the National School of Fine Arts were interviewed about the upcoming Spanish exhibition, they were uniformly enthusiastic, perceiving the presence of a large number of Spanish paintings in Mexico City to be beneficial for the development of art in their own country. Herrán, one of two students interviewed for El Imparcial, expressed his “hope that the exhibition would be better than any other that has already been held in Mexico and do a lot of good for students in the academy.” His classmate Francisco de la Torre went further, noting that the exhibition of Spanish painting would be of great importance for the teaching of art in Mexico, for the art of this nation was “closely connected to art currents in Spain.”77 By participating in the 1910 Centennial celebrations, the Spanish government hoped to revitalize its links to America, and these exhibitions took place in three American nations—Argentina, Chile, and Mexico—that privileged the Castilian language and Catholic religion of Spain. They were also republics, identifying in this respect with France and the United States. Just as Spain and Spanishness meant one thing to a Catalan and another to a Castilian, the Latin American republics, and the diverse populations within them, understood Spain and Spanishness in

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multiple ways. Americanness, too, meant different things to different people and in different nations, and Americans’ relationship to Spanishness varied across time and place. Spanish art seems to have offered these American nations not simply a “renewal of the fraternal relations that shared blood and history demand,” but also a strategy for making art of one’s own. The creation of a modern national art during the first decades of the twentieth century concerned all artists and cultural critics in America, including the United States. The Spanish artists and architects who participated in the 1910 centenaries employed the histories, styles, customs, and landscapes of Castile, Catalonia, Valencia, and the Basque Country, among other regions of the Iberian Peninsula, in their paintings and pavilions. American artists, eager to create their own nationally recognized works of art, likewise turned to regional and national histories, and to the particularities of place, to do so. Local subjects and imagined histories, in other words, provided the visual language for what was becoming, by 1910, an increasingly globalized and simultaneously polarized world.

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5 Using Spain to Ignore Mexicans at the 1915 California Fairs

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our m e n, ne at ly dre ssed and wearing fashionable jackets and ties, stare intently into the camera (fig. 65). The younger men are clean shaven, and the older ones sport well-groomed mustaches. According to information published with the photograph, the seated man in the light-colored suit is the father of the two young men standing behind; seated next to him in a double-­ breasted jacket is his friend. All four men had traveled north from Mexico to work as gardeners in San Diego’s Balboa Park during the 1915 Panama-­California Exposition. They returned to a ranch called Paso Bajo, in the municipality of Jesús María in eastern Jalisco, after their work was done.1 The photograph, attributed to Joseph R. Collins, was produced at a photography studio located at 711 H Street (now Market Street) in downtown San Diego. The sitters are otherwise unidentified. Behind these four Mexican men is a backdrop inviting others to “Meet Me in San Diego,” with a loose rendering of the Spanish-themed structures built for the fair; the Cabrillo Bridge is partially visible at left, and a bell tower, possibly one of the two that flanked the railway’s new Santa Fe Depot or maybe one of the towers on the fairgrounds itself, projects upward between the boys. This photograph demands sustained attention in the context of this book, and the presence of Mexicans at the two California fairs mounted in 1915 provides a further reason to consider Spain’s erasure from the history of the United States and the need to write it back in. Who were these men? How did they come to pose for this photograph? And how might Spanishness in the United States have spoken to them during visits to California for work during a decade when Mexico was in the midst of a violent revolution? Both San Francisco and San Diego, two U.S. cities on the western coast of what had been part of the Spanish empire and was administered until 1848 by Mexico,

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Figure 65  Joseph R. Collins, Meet Me in San Diego: There Is My Great-Grandpa, ca. 1915. Leticia Leon Collection, Panama-California Exposition Digital Archive, photo_leon_01.

held fairs in 1915, each vying for the honor of hosting the official world’s fair in celebration of the opening of the Panama Canal. The time it took ships to make their way around the Strait of Magellan toward Cuba had led U.S. politicians to assume responsibility for engineering this channel after the Spanish-American War of 1898. The canal shortened the journey between the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans considerably and promised to expand economic opportunity and trade between Europe, the United States, Latin America, and Asia. New Orleans made a bid for the 1915 World’s Fair as well. “There are ties that bind New Orleans and the Central and South American Republics, ties of blood and kinship and of language,” argued Louisiana governor J. Y. Sanders. “Our Governors at one time were Spanish. Our institutions, our law, our ideas, everything was Spanish at one time.”2 The port of New Orleans provided convenient access to the eastern entrance of

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the canal, while the harbors of California served the west. Spain, which had historical ties to both of these regions, would surely play a role at such a celebration. Explorers with ties to Spain, after all, were the first Europeans to cross the Isthmus of Panama. San Francisco, with a much larger population than San Diego and a promise to build the fair without financial support from Washington, won the federal government’s permission to mount the Panama-Pacific International Exposition (PPIE), a Beaux-Arts world’s fair modeled in many respects on expositions held in Chicago and Paris. San Diego made up for defeat by mounting a smaller regional fair, the Panama-California Exposition (PCE), which promoted historical ties to the past by building a Spanish colonial city in the early twentieth century. Previous scholars, Burton Benedict, Sarah Moore, and Matthew Bokovoy among them, have examined these California expositions in relation to such themes as urban and parkland development, evolution and empire, gender and eugenics, and the representation of Asians, blacks, and Native Americans.3 This chapter builds on their work in order to explore the question of how Spain, the Spanish, and Spanishness functioned and were understood at these events. It argues, in conclusion, that Spain’s erasure and subsequent reimagination has made it difficult for the United States to embrace its expanding Spanish-speaking population and be the progressive, positive, and pluralistic nation it might still become.

Spain’s Absence at the San Francisco Fair San Francisco organizers began lobbying for Spanish participation at the PPIE well before they were granted governmental approval to host an exposition, and prefair events suggested that this world’s fair, in contrast to earlier ones held in the East, would highlight the nation’s Spanish history. The Midwinter Exposition, San Francisco’s first fair, had been organized in 1894 by newspaper publisher Michael H. de Young. Held in Golden Gate Park, it featured a large number of exhibits that were transferred from Chicago’s 1893 Columbian Exposition. When plans for a follow-up were scuttled by the 1906 earthquake and fire, city leaders decided to organize a smaller event celebrating the 140th anniversary of Gaspar de Portolá’s 1769 arrival in San Francisco Bay. Portolá was the first Spanish governor of California, in one sense the founder of the state. The first Portola Festival (during which the Spanish explorer’s name began to lose its accent) was held in 1909, with a second one organized four years later in 1913.4 During the Spanish viceregal period, Alta (upper) California had remained the most remote, sparsely populated, and northwestern region of Nueva España, and administrators in Madrid had concerned themselves with the region only after other European nations began to threaten their claim. Portolá arrived as the

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leader of a military expedition, accompanied by Father Junípero Serra and the Franciscan friars responsible for founding California’s twenty-one missions, in the late eighteenth century. Fifty years later, in 1821, the region passed to Mexico at the end of the War of Independence. Large land grants—several awarded by Spain during its tenure and many more granted by Mexico after it secularized and dispersed mission lands in the 1830s—led to the creation of the ranchos, vast tracts that were owned by Spanish-speaking residents known as Californios. They, along with a much larger Indigenous population, constituted the primary inhabitants of California in the years before the territory was annexed by the United States in 1848. The Mexican government began the process of erasing Spanish ruling systems in northern California after the War of Independence, and the U.S. government built upon this process after the Mexican-American War. Spanishness in California was subject to a double erasure. English speakers arrived in California only occasionally in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, but the 1848–55 gold rush led to massive immigration and the rapid dissolution of the ranchos in the northern part of the state. Required to prove their property titles after U.S. annexation, the Californios lost most of their land in legal battles over the validity of Spanish and Mexican agreements that often dragged on for decades.5 Floods and droughts in the 1860s further weakened their position, and many were forced to sell all or part of their land to pay taxes, attorneys’ fees, and other debts. By 1870, the Californios retained only about one-quarter of their original holdings, and by the early 1880s the number of English-speaking residents dramatically outnumbered Spanish speakers, especially in northern California. Descendants of this diminishing sector of California society and Spanish representatives from Spain participated in San Francisco’s Portola Festivals, which included lively masquerade balls and festive historical parades featuring costumed participants.6 The Marquis de Villalobar, then serving as Spanish minister in Washington, D.C., traveled to San Francisco to participate in the 1909 Portola Festival, and Nicolás Antonio Covarrubias, described by the San Francisco Call as “the son of an old and honored Spanish family,” performed the role of the eighteenth-­century Spanish explorer at the 1909 festival. “Nick,” as he was called, had “gained widespread fame in southern California as a carnival king. His daring feats of horsemanship date back to the days when the Spanish still outnumbered the Americans in many sections of the state.”7 The Call also included a photograph of Covarrubias, along with a drawing of the honored guest astride a prancing steed with sword held aloft like a conquistador. Covarrubias’s father had arrived in California from Spain via Mexico to practice law and become, after the 1848 Treaty of Hidalgo, a U.S. citizen; his mother, who traced her family to Pío Pico, the last Mexican governor of Alta California, was born in Santa Barbara.8 Covarrubias,

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playing the role of Portolá, was given a key to the city by San Francisco mayor Edward Robeson Taylor (fig. 66) before marrying his queen, played by Virgilia Bogue, daughter of railway magnate Virgil Bogue, in a mock ceremony. Spanish history in San Francisco, notes historian David Glassberg, was best performed at masquerade balls and in a raucous carnival setting. A Spanish dancer, whom Glassberg described as a “dark, overtly sexual figure, cigarette in hand,” appeared on official stationery.9 She appeared again on official posters, standing in front of the San Francisco Ferry Building and throwing roses to the crowd (plate 17). The tower of the Ferry Building, designed by architect A. Page Brown and completed in 1898, was inspired by the Giralda bell tower in Seville. The Spanish woman—a Sevillana from Andalusia—performs her dance in the foreground of the image, while the tower, topped by a red, white, and blue U.S. flag, provides a reassuring backdrop that controls California’s Spanishness by visualizing it as subordinate to the nation. Similar festivities marked the 1913 Portola Festival, which celebrated Spanish explorer Vasco Núñez de Balboa and the four-hundredth anniversary of his crossing of the Isthmus of Panama to become the first European to view the Pacific Ocean. The role of Balboa was given to Ralph Phelps, a prominent member of the city’s Bohemian Club, while his consort was played by Conchita Sepúlveda, descendent of a southern Californio family that traced its arrival to Portolá’s eighteenth-­century journey.10 Sepúlveda’s father, Ignacio, had served as a judge in Los Angeles before leaving California in the 1880s for Mexico City, where he worked for thirty years during the presidency of Porfirio Díaz. The family returned to southern California during the early years of the Mexican Revolution. Californio families from the northern part of the state participated in these events as well. For example, the Cooper-Molera family was involved in both the Portola Festivals and the PPIE. John Rogers Cooper had arrived on the West Coast from New England in 1823, converted to Catholicism, and changed his name to Juan Bautista Rogers Cooper in order to marry Encarnación Vallejo, sister of General Mariano Vallejo, one of the wealthiest and most powerful of the early landholders in California.11 Cooper eventually acquired Rancho El Sur, a tract of land just south of Monterey that had been granted by the Mexican government. His Anglo background undoubtedly helped him navigate the U.S. court system after annexation, and he patented the title to his land in 1866. His daughter Amelia married Eusebio (Eusebius) J. Molera, who had been born in Vich (Catalonia) and emigrated to the United States in 1872.12 Molera, a one-time supervisor of the City and County of San Francisco with interests in astronomy and photography, served as a member of the organizing committee for the 1909 Portola Festival. He also prepared an English translation of Portolá’s eighteenth-century land expedition, published in San Francisco the same year.13

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Figure 66  Gaspar de Portolá (Nicolás Covarrubias) Receiving a Key to the City from Mayor Edward Robeson Taylor, 1909. San Francisco History Center, San Francisco Public Library, AAK-0196.

Drawing upon his participation in the Portola Festivals, San Francisco boosters consulted with Molera and others in his small circle about how best to persuade the Spanish to participate in the 1915 World’s Fair. Juan Riaño y Gayangos, head of the Spanish legation in Washington, D.C., received a visit in January 1910 from PPIE president Charles C. Moore, during which he was told that California felt great love for Spain “due to its historic relationship and family ties.” Riaño suggested to superiors in Madrid that Spain should participate in the exposition not just to gain access to California’s growing market but also to better reach “los pueblos Hispano-Americanos,” especially those on the Pacific Coast that with the opening of the canal would soon be taking advantage of faster transportation to Europe.14 Government officials in Madrid reacted as other European politicians did—by sending inquiries to their various diplomatic offices about how other countries were planning to respond to the invitation. While several Latin American nations were interested in attending the fair, most European countries were not. Although their reluctance was officially attributed to economic pressures, political and national rivalries were also at work. Europeans were angered by the announcement of differential canal tolls that provided significant trade advantages to the United States. The Spanish, having ceded their colonies in Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines to the United States in 1898, and having consequently declined to attend the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition, continued to have their own

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reasons for remaining aloof. To encourage acceptances, a U.S. delegation visited all of the major European capitals, including Madrid, in the summer of 1912.15 Confusion ensued when the Spanish government issued an announcement promising to facilitate Spanish participation, with enthusiastic fair officials interpreting the statement as full acceptance and Spanish officials rushing to emphasize the difference between participation accompanied by a government subvention and a general willingness to encourage interested parties to make arrangements for their own exhibits.16 Eventually, the Spanish government sent the Marquis de la Vega-Inclán, commissioner of Spanish tourism, to California during the winter of 1912 to ease the controversy, assess the benefits of participation, and make a final recommendation (fig. 67).17 PPIE Board director William H. Crocker instructed Moore to “turn loose all of the entertaining machinery so as to give the Marquis and his party the best kind of a time,” because the marquis was a personal friend of the king and “what he says will go.”18 He also contacted Molera, urging him to call on the marquis, and told Moore to “drum up a few more important Spanish people so that he can have someone who can talk to him direct because he does not speak English.” The marquis’s visit, orchestrated in part by philanthropist and Hispanophile Archer Milton Huntington, began in New York and continued via rail to southern California. He arrived in San Francisco after a mission tour up the coast, was feted at an elaborate banquet hosted by Crocker, and viewed an architectural model for the Court of the Universe placed on display by members of the fair’s planning committee. Newspapers from New York to California covered the marquis’s visit extensively, some of them explicitly noting Spain’s erasure. “The old missions in California and other vanishing marks of the early occupancy of the sturdy Spanish explorers who brought the civilization of the old world to the western shores of America,” claimed the San Francisco Chronicle, “make California a place still dear to the hearts of the people of Spain. In view of this, it is believed that Spain will participate in the exposition to be held here in 1915 as she never has in any other big international exposition.”19 Vega-Inclán heightened expectations, comparing what the Spanish had done at the Paris world’s fairs to what might be done in San Francisco: “Although in Paris . . . everything was done that could be done, Paris remained Paris, and the surroundings were—well, not Spain. The treasures were there, but housed in a French building. In California, however, it is quite different. A sympathetic environment already exists, and something real, something expressive, something deeply significant may be devised.”20 In his letter to the king, Vega-Inclán recommended participation, not so as to dominate the land but to reassert Spain’s “spiritual domination” of America.21 Riaño and his consular colleague Esteban Salazar y Cólogan, the Conde del Valle de Salazar, assigned to San

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Figure 67  The Marquis de la Vega-Inclán in San Francisco, 1913. Donald G. Larson Collection on International Expositions and Fairs, Special Collections Research Collection, California State University, Fresno, EXP915a. A1b.

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Francisco at this time, likewise argued that Spain might accomplish a “spiritual reconquest” of the region through official participation, however modest, while privately admitting that the controversy over U.S. protectionism, skepticism about whether California had the resources to support a world’s fair, and disgust at the treatment of foreign exhibitors during the 1904 St. Louis fair were keeping many nations away.22 Widespread condemnation of Washington’s meddling in Mexican affairs leading up to the February 1913 coup and assassination of President Francisco Madero further hardened the position of those opposed to participation.23 For their part, politicians in Madrid, preoccupied with internal problems— discontent over military conscription policies, continuing unrest in Morocco, rising union activism, and the tragic assassination of Prime Minister José Canalejas on November 12, 1912—were not inclined to allocate money for a fair being held on the far side of the United States. The Spanish response, notes historian Javier

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Moreno Luzón, was contradictory and inconsistent, pitting those who wanted to leave behind the bitter memory of 1898 and use the United States as a model for regeneration against those who resisted renewing ties with the new imperialist power.24 Spanish sentiments were by now inclined toward Latin American expressions of Hispanic unity rather than U.S. led Pan-Americanism, which was increasingly viewed as interventionist and imperialistic. And at least one U.S. diplomat working in Madrid affirmed the inefficacy of pleas made on the basis of history: “I do not believe from what influential persons say, that any sentiment on the part of Spain for California and her old associations there will figure,” wrote Consul Frederick T. Dumont to organizers in San Francisco in 1913. “The argument is that Spain has no trade with California or the United States that could be lost were she not represented.”25 The Spanish did mount exhibitions and pavilions at Panama’s Exposición Nacional of 1916, which, like the PPIE, celebrated Balboa’s historic journey across the isthmus, but the California fairs were located in regions of the world considered less strategically important for the development of tourism and trade in Spain.26 By the time San Francisco organizers sent another delegation to Madrid in March 1914, Great Britain and Germany had announced their decisions to abstain. In desperation, the commissioners requested a personal meeting with King Alfonso XIII, summarizing their argument in a letter that followed their audience with the Spanish monarch: It was through the aid and patronage of their majesties Ferdinand and Isabella that Columbus discovered the western hemisphere, and it was through the patronage and under the directions of the great Spanish Monarch Charles V that Cortez made the first suggestion ever uttered in recommendation of “making a strait” through the Isthmus of Darien. .  .  . Next to the United States there is no country in the world that can feel the same degree of pride and interest in this greatest of all engineering achievements, the construction of the Panama Canal, as can historic Spain, and her absence from our wonderful Exposition . . . would be noticed and remarked to a greater degree than the absence of any other country.27 Further confusion followed, with organizers hoping yet again that an allocation would be made and a pavilion constructed. Molera, who made a private trip to Spain later that summer, even told the New York Times that he personally had extracted a promise from the government, undoubtedly angering consular officials already frustrated by Spanish residents in California who had repeatedly failed to respect proper diplomatic channels.28 In any event, Molera was wrong.

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In contrast to their involvement in the Philadelphia and Chicago world’s fairs, the Spanish refused to pay for any official exhibits at the PPIE. Those who wished to participate acted alone, and the few Spanish paintings in San Francisco—Eliseo Meifrén, Gonzalo Bilbao, and José López Mezquita were represented, while Joaquín Sorolla and Ignacio Zuloaga were not—were mixed into the international section rather than hung as a group in a national display prepared for the Palace of Fine Arts.29 Esteemed art critic Christian Brinton was disappointed by their absence. “Not the least disappointing feature of the Exposition,” he wrote, “was the lamentable absence of Spain, the one foreign country whose official participation would seem to have been essential to the undertaking. In default of any sort of regular representation, a few stray Spanish artists found their way to the Pacific Coast.”30 Still, the Conde del Valle de Salazar tried to remain upbeat. In his final report to Madrid after the closure of the PPIE, he claimed that although Spain’s failure to act had initially been met with coolness, the fair was still characterized by the predominant use of the Spanish Renaissance style, and an “infinite” number of statues, representing “the great men of Spain who had discovered, colonized, and civilized the continent,” decorated its various plazas.31 Salazar, who spoke at the inauguration of the San Diego fair as well, further claimed that eulogies to Spain “referred not only to historic Spain, but to contemporary Spain as well.”32 Visual and textual evidence suggests otherwise. As at the Chicago Columbian Exposition, when Spain was referenced in speeches and portrayed in materials promoting the 1915 Exposition, it was invariably in the past. Spanish architectural styles at the PPIE were blended into the exposition’s generalized Mediterranean vocabulary, and sculptures of Spanish men depicted conquistadors rather than civilizers. The Tower of Jewels, through which most visitors entered the exposition, was flanked by statues modeled by Charles Niehaus and Charles Cary Rumsey depicting Hernán Cortés and Francisco Pizarro, who conquered the Aztec and Inca Empires in 1521 and 1532, respectively. Stella Perry explained their presence in her guide to the sculptural decoration at the fair: “Equestrian statues of Cortez and Pizarro stand in the Avenue of Palms at the base of the Tower of Jewels to suggest the early history of the South and West of this hemisphere as a background to the present achievements at Panama and, indeed, at San Francisco.” Her language was fused with Black Legend rhetoric. The statue of Cortés, she continued, displayed “ruthless ambition,” and Pizarro “spared neither his men nor his enemy until the rich cities of the southern Empire had been pillaged of their gold and destroyed.”33 These were not present-day civilizers, “great men of Spain,” as Salazar claimed, but avaricious Spanish conquistadors drawn exclusively from the past. When Spanish architectural sources were used, the iconography of the sculptural ornamentation was altered and its characterization as Spanish undermined. The south portal of the Palace of Varied Industries, for example, was based on the

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doorway for Spain’s Hospital de Santa Cruz in Toledo, but the sculptures conceived by Ralph Stackpole to replace the religious subjects that filled the niches of the original now personified spinning, architecture, agriculture, labor, and commerce, saying nothing of Spain.34 Even a distinctively Spanish style such as the plateresque was explained through reference to French and Italian sources. The doorways decorating the Palaces of Mines and Metallurgy, Transportation, Agriculture, and Food Products, described by Sheldon Cheney as “worthy of prolonged study,” recalled “that transitional period of Spanish architecture that came between the Gothic and the Renaissance, when Gothic had been enriched through the influence of Moorish art, and was just beginning to feel the impulse of the Italian Renaissance.”35 The central figure ornamenting these four doorways was a conquistador, and the renegade in the side niches, “with an old-style pistol in his belt and a rope in his hand,” was called The Pirate.36 Salazar may have thought the small towers marking secondary entrances into the Court of Palms and Court of Flowers were inspired by the Giralda in Seville, but even these landmarks were called the Italian, not the Spanish Towers.37 Only the California Building was built, as at the 1893 Columbian Exposition, in an architectural style that everyone recognized as Spanish. Designed by Thomas H. Burditt, this structure included a “commanding tower . . . better than anything ever done by the padres in California. From its façade, Fray Junipero Serra looks out over a charming garden, which, more than anything else, invests this building with the real spirit of California. It is a reproduction, even to the fountain, the pepper trees, and the old fashioned flowers, of the private garden of the Santa Barbara Mission.”38 In this building, which represented the state of California rather than the nation as a whole, the mission style prevailed. The overall architectural plan of the San Francisco fair was notable for its integrated design, organized around a series of interior courts created by the continuous façades of buildings that surrounded fair visitors and allowed them to experience the space in a fluid and continuous manner. The Tower of Jewels, at 433 feet the tallest structure of the fair, provided access to the Court of the Universe, where two monumental triumphal arches surmounted by Stirling Calder’s sculptural groups, called The Nations of the West and The Nations of the East, dominated the classically inspired space. While Chicago’s architectural complex had been unified with white paint, director of color Jules Guérin, who called the PPIE “a beautiful jewel set in the turquoise of the sea,” employed a pastel palette of pink, blue, and terracotta orange in San Francisco.39 The Cardinell-Vincent Company, which received the concession for souvenir views at the PPIE, produced many postcards of this unifying space and marketed them to visitors who came to the fair (plate 18 and fig. 68). Sometimes bound in sets with as many as twenty separate images held in a mailable folder, they were mechanically reproduced from

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hand-colored photographs, taken before the fair opened when the grounds were empty. The figures were often added later.40 In Nations of the East, Court of the Universe (fig. 68), fairgoers—single men, couples, and women with children— stroll though, congregate in, gaze at, and comment upon the centrally designed court. Two small figures near the floral-edged planting, toward which the gentleman in the foreground directs our attention, hurry forward toward a third, who is leaning down to smell or perhaps pick one of the tempting blossoms. The color of these postcards, highlighted, like the buildings, in bright pastel colors, lent the monochromatic photographs an appropriately festive air.41 The integration of visitors with the architectural design of the PPIE created a three-dimensional physical environment that promoted a multisensorial experience—visual, aural, olfactory, and even haptic. The strollers added to the photographs were generalized upper-middle-class types, lacking individual identifying characteristics; the men wore modern business suits and the ladies were attired like those in New York or Philadelphia. The audience for these images was expanded when visitors sent the postcards to friends and family in other parts of the nation. Those who did not make the trip to the actual fairgrounds could see their names inscribed between the Italian Towers and imagine themselves at the fair in place of these generic stand-ins. Although Spanish and Californio residents were able to play a role in regional events like the Portola Festivals of 1909 and 1913, assimilated U.S. citizens suggesting English descent appeared almost exclusively in souvenir materials produced for the PPIE. Spanishness might have resonated for some Californians, but only a generic Mediterranean classicism, with the same Beaux-Arts vocabulary that had been employed in Chicago, was worthy of a world’s fair that represented the United States as a whole.

Spain’s Presence in San Diego “Differing widely from the San Francisco fair,” wrote the author of the official souvenir book for the Panama-California Exposition, that at San Diego is a triumphant display of what man can do by utilizing to fullest advantage the wonderworks of Nature in southern California. No other section of the country is so blessed with winters which are balmy and summers which are cool—with twelve months of the year offering uninterrupted June. And nowhere else could such feats be performed as have marked the erection of the magic Spanish city of mission and cathedral and palace, where twentieth century bustle is forgotten and the seeker after beauty finds himself transported to the romance and grandeur of the Spain of three centuries ago.42

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An illustrated postcard produced in the early years of exposition planning imagined the elevated terrain of San Diego’s City Park, renamed Balboa Park in time for the PCE, with a Franciscan friar strolling along a crumbling, ivy-covered arcade toward a mission church with bell tower that was never actually built in this part of the city (plate 19). The geography is somewhat distorted; San Diego Bay, Coronado, and Point Loma are accurately portrayed on the horizon, but the middle distance includes churches, plazas, and other buildings that only vaguely resemble the fountains and churches in Old Town San Diego, further north in the city. As in San Francisco, Spain did not sponsor an official display at this fair, and organizers were free to imagine the Spanish history of their state at will. Bertram Goodhue, who trained in New York and worked in Boston, was responsible for architectural planning at California’s regional fair. In contrast to northern California, English-speaking immigrants from the East did not begin flooding into the southern part of the state until the 1880s, thirty years after the gold rush. Spanish remained the dominant language in southern California, and towns such as Los Angeles and San Diego retained visible reminders of Spain’s presence much longer than San Francisco did. But things were

Figure 68  Nations of the East, Court of the Universe, ca. 1915. Donald G. Larson Collection on International Expositions and Fairs, Special Collections Research Collection, California State University, Fresno, EXP915a.673pc-02.

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changing fast; by 1887, the population of southern California had quintupled, and only 10 percent of residents spoke Spanish. Comparative population figures were also significantly different from today. San Diego counted 39,578 residents in 1910, Los Angeles 319,198, and San Francisco 416,912.43 Fair organizers in San Diego hoped to promote population growth and economic opportunity in their city, which boasted the U.S. harbor nearest to the Panama Canal. They also hoped to avoid the industrial pollution, labor unrest, and “undesirable” immigration that often accompanied such change. Mexican migrants were not in their plans, but the fair began to coalesce just as the Mexican Revolution erupted in 1910.44 Early twentieth-century San Diego was struggling thanks to its failure to attract the western terminus of the cross-continental railway. The Mexican Revolution, moreover, was beginning to send refugees across the border at a dizzying rate. “Rapid change and political instability,” notes historian Christopher SchmidtNowara, “are often the goad for acts of public historical commemoration designed to demonstrate the antiquity of the local political and social order.”45 To break ground for the San Diego Exposition, a four-day festival was organized, one that built on San Francisco’s Portola Festival and the memories of embodied history such performances entailed. From July 19 to 22, 1911, the city celebrated a series of events linking New Spain to the twentieth century, commemorating the 1542 arrival of Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo, who navigated the coast of California on behalf of Spain, and the 1769 founding of the Presidio and Mission San Diego by Portolá and Serra. This was not San Diego’s first public historical commemoration, for the city had hosted its first Cabrillo Festival in 1892, on the 350th anniversary of Cabrillo’s journey.46 As in San Francisco, these festivities brought diverse groups of people together in a carnivalesque atmosphere that encouraged a distortion of history and a temporary suspension of social hierarchies.47 Fictional personalities such as Ramona, the heroine of Helen Hunt Jackson’s 1884 historical novel about a Californio family living in the United States after annexation, made their appearance as well, with one groundbreaking event improbably featuring Cabrillo, the sixteenth-century Spaniard, taking nineteenth-century Ramona, played by Helene Roberts, as his twentieth-century queen.48 Castillo, played by Morley Stayton, was often referred to as the Carnival King. Jackson had composed Ramona after failing to find an audience for reports documenting the deplorable conditions she witnessed while visiting the Mission Indians of southern California.49 Her concern for the Indigenous inhabitants derived both from the lived reality of these authoritarian institutions—only recently has the brutality of mission life been openly acknowledged—and from Black Legend propaganda promoted by Spain’s imperial rivals.50 Jackson hoped that a romantic story about life in California would draw attention to the impoverished Native American population currently in the West, much as Harriet Beecher

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Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin had to the situation of antebellum African American slaves living in the South. She succeeded instead in promoting what Carey McWilliams has called a “Spanish Fantasy Heritage,” a romantically imagined history that idealized the Spanish, rather than the English or Dutch, roots of the nation.51 Jackson’s setting was a midcentury rancho in southern California, a place where Señora Moreno was raising the beautiful orphan Ramona, the mixed-race daughter of a Scottish man and his Native American wife: “[The place] was one of the best specimens to be found in California of the representative house of the half barbaric, half elegant, wholly generous and free-handed life led there by Mexican men and women of degree in the early part of this century, under the rule of the Spanish and Mexican viceroys, when the laws of the Indies were still the law of the land, and its old name, ‘New Spain,’ was an ever-present link and stimulus to the warmest memories and deepest patriotisms of its people.”52 Racially and economically stratified, the ranchos, owned by wealthy Spanish-speaking Creoles, employed mixed-race and Indigenous workers to manage their herds of cattle and sheep. That the Mexican government, responsible for granting the land for most such ranchos, ruled through governors rather than viceroys was apparently overlooked by Jackson and her fans. Moreover, antimodernism, as defined by cultural critic T. J. Jackson Lears, is clearly evident in Jackson’s paradoxical characterization of Señora Moreno’s home as “half barbaric, half elegant.”53 Native Americans, the Spanish, and even Catholicism provided Jackson’s readers with a way to imagine a period deemed more romantic than the present and to ignore the modern changes being introduced to California in the late nineteenth century. Jackson equated Mexican Creoles directly with Spain, with Señora Moreno descended from parents on the Iberian Peninsula. “It is in your blood,” Father Salvierderra tells his friend Señora Moreno after she confesses a passion for the smell of musk. “When I was last in your father’s house in Seville, your mother sent for me to her room, and under her window was a stone balcony full of growing musk, which so filled the room with its odor that I was like to faint.” Clinching the roots of her passion, Salvierderra adds, “You were a baby then.” The Spanish fantasy relied upon a purification and whitening of Spanish identity, and Señora Moreno, supposedly of pure Spanish lineage, disapproves of mixed-race offspring. When her sister asks her to raise the orphaned Ramona as her own, she agrees only with considerable reluctance. “She did not wish any dealings with such alien and mongrel blood. ‘If the child were pure Indian, I would like it better,’ she said. ‘I like not these crosses. It is the worst, and not the best of each, that remains.’”54 The “marriage” of Spanish-born Cabrillo to Ramona, daughter of an immigrant from Scotland and an Indigenous Californian, took San Diego’s flirtation with mestizaje to a place sanctioned only in the upside-down realm of carnival. In the reversal of class structure described

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by Mikhail Bakhtin in Rabelais and His World, carnival unsettled but also reinforced strict racial hierarchies, which were returned to their rightful position and became more firmly entrenched after the festivities were over.55 Pageants, processions, and masked balls marked other groundbreaking events in San Diego, with parades drawing a variation on the progressive history that had been traced on the streets of Mexico City one year earlier. The press likewise promoted this idea; one article, titled “San Diego’s Evolutionary Exposition,” even recounted San Diego’s fight for a fair through the metaphor of a mockingbird holding its own against a predatory cat.56 In San Diego, history moved logically and by necessity from Indigenous to Spanish and finally to Anglo control of the land. On the second day of the groundbreaking ceremonies, a historical pageant featured a long line of floats depicting, in succession, Aztec priests making a sacrifice to Huitzilopochtli, Balboa viewing and claiming the Pacific on behalf of Spain, Cortés triumphing over Montezuma, Cabrillo arriving by caravel in San Diego’s harbor, Father Serra baptizing Indian converts at Mission San Diego, soldiers raising the U.S. flag in San Diego after the Treaty of Hidalgo, King Neptune presiding at the wedding of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, and San Diego, past, present, and future. The raising of the U.S. flag, according to John S. McGroarty, organizer of the pageantry, “sent the greatest thrill through the miles of spectators who lined the streets of the city.”57 Cultural historian Phoebe Kropp aptly suggests that Anglo-Americans were “inheriting the conquistadors’ mantle and continuing their conquest. Thus the exposition related the history of California as one of progress and national succession.”58 Schmidt-Nowara makes a similar argument. The championing of California’s Spanish past by authors such as Charles F. Lummis in Spanish Pioneers and the California Missions (1893), he observes, suggests that “an imperial metamorphosis was underway in the United States.” Although Black Legend distrust of Spain continued to flourish, “after 1898 the Spanish legacies in the United States . . . provided local boosters with the language of global empire.”59 On the fourth and final day of the groundbreaking, a cast of nearly one thousand participants impersonating monks, soldiers, knights, and Indians, along with another twenty-one floats, one for each of the California missions, paraded down the streets of the city. It was a procession that possessed, in the words of Richard Amero, who chronicled San Diego’s history through a close reading of the local newspapers, “some of the awe-inspiring quality of [the] famous Semana Santa of Seville.”60 “As the long, glorious procession came up the sunny street,” wrote an observer, “a deep hush fell upon the people who numbered a hundred thousand and made the biggest crowd that San Diego had ever entertained at any one time in her history. The pageant’s slow and solemn movement created the right atmosphere. It seemed as though the people were in attendance upon a religious ceremony, which it really was. Not a carnival horn was blown, not a noisy bell was jangled.”61 The

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juxtaposition of carnival and religion is compelling; after all, the carnival season is linked to the rituals of the liturgical calendar. Sound, and its absence, functioned to promote national sentiment, just as it had in Chicago and Mexico City. The groundbreaking parades placed participants and viewers in relation to one another such that viewers could watch, but still maintain distance from, the actors performing their roles. They also promoted shifting subjectivities, as participants could serve as both viewers and actors during the course of the pageantry. Immersion in the environment and the affective response occasioned by the four-day ceremony was heightened by the participation of elected officials. John Barrett, chief of the Pan-American Union, spoke on behalf of President William Howard Taft; state and municipal representatives were on hand to offer congratulations as well. A Catholic Mass was also celebrated. Some may have placed this religious ceremony in the category of historical commemoration—a reenactment of the High Mass sung by Father Serra in 1769 upon his founding of Mission San Diego de Alcalá—but the participation of actual clergy transformed this reenactment into the real thing. The service was conducted by Irish-born Thomas James Conaty, bishop of Monterey and Los Angeles, and Father Benedict from the Franciscan Order in Saint Louis, assisted by four additional Franciscan friars and fifty acolytes. It took place, explained McGroarty, “on the same spot, under the same blue sky and on the shores of the same bright Harbor of the Sun.”62 The Mass was undoubtedly conducted in Latin, and those present at the ceremony observed that the environmental context—one that included such sensory effects as the warmth of the sun and the smell of the waterfront—further facilitated this bringing of historical Spain into the present. Some celebrants were thrilled to find their presence at the Mass documented in real photo postcards, many of which were produced by enterprising photographers eager to benefit from the influx of tourists (fig. 69).63 Images of the service were taken from a hill across from the altar, erected in a shallow canyon on the south side of Balboa Park. Behind the liturgical table was a triptych with an image of the Virgin Mary, supposedly derived from an old mission altar from Loreto in Baja California,64 and on the back of one card is a handwritten message, dated two weeks after the ceremony: “View taken during the celebration of the Military Mass in Balboa Park, and the beginning of the 4 days of pageantry and Carnival in connection with the Ground breaking Ceremonies. It was a beautiful and impressive Ceremony and there were more than 30,000 people present. You will find Mrs. G. with a Red dot on her back. We will soon be starting towards San Francisco.”65 Mrs. G. refers to a Mrs. Gallagher, and she is indeed just visible, standing at the far bottom left immediately above a seated woman wearing a light blouse and flowered hat. Horses harnessed to carriages in the foreground lead the viewer’s eye in a gentle arc toward the woman marked on the card. The onlookers

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Figure 69  Military High Mass in a Balboa Park Canyon, 1911. John Earl Collection, Panama-California Exposition Digital Archive, rppc_je_gb _00069.

closest to the photographer turn toward the Mass taking place on the raised dais, providing the postcard recipient with a vicarious opportunity to participate in the ceremony. Following the service, an invocation for the breaking of sod was delivered by a pastor from the First Presbyterian Church, lest Catholicism become too deeply rooted in San Diego.66 A Catholic Mass, like carnival, provided Protestant San Diegans with a brief transgressive moment before further entrenching the power structure of the city.

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The Spanish colonial architecture employed in San Diego readily evoked feelings of power, well-being, and grandeur. Whereas Spanish organizers had usually employed early modern and Islamic architectural vocabularies at earlier fairs, Goodhue chose the Spanish baroque, disparaged during most of the nineteenth century as being overly ornate and pretentious.67 Postcards produced by concessionaire I. L. Eno, hand-colored and commercially reproduced like those in San Francisco, emphasize the magnificence of the fairgrounds through the use of elevated viewpoints, impressive displays of depth of field, and dramatic juxtapositions of scale. Art historian Erika Doss argues that “works of art are the physical and visual embodiment of public affect, ‘repositories of feelings and emotions’ that are encoded in their material form, narrative content, and ‘the practices that surround their production and reception.’”68 All these effects, promoting affect, are visible in postcard views of the exposition. Some depict the massive arcade of the Cabrillo Bridge, primary gateway to the exposition; others show the neocolonial splendor of the California Building (fig. 70), which greeted visitors upon their arrival; while still others document the various buildings that flanked the central open square known as the Plaza de Panama. The ornamentation of the domed basilica known as the California Building, one of the few edifices designed as a permanent structure for the fair, features a Latin inscription around the base of the dome that reads, in translation, “A land of wheat and barley, of vines and fig trees, and pomegranates; a land of olive oil and honey.”69 Despite being designed to resemble a Catholic basilica, the California Building had an exclusively secular function. A spectacular bell tower springs from its south-facing façade, and the portal is covered with cast-stone ornament modeled in the Churrigueresque style by the Piccirilli Brothers of New York. Carleton Winslow, charged by Goodhue with designing the building, provided a complete inventory of the figures depicted: At the top is Father Junipero Serra, below, busts of Charles Fifth and Philip Second, of Spain; at either side of the window, Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, the first white man to step on the western coast of the United States, in 1542, and the Spanish navigator, [Sebastián] Viscaino. Occupying the lowest niches are the Franciscan, Father Jayme, first martyr of the Mission period, and Father de la Ascension, the Carmelite historiographer who accompanied Viscaino. Immediately above them are busts of Vancouver, the first English navigator to enter the harbor of San Diego, and Portolá, the first Spanish government of California.70 Heraldic seals—representing Spain, Portugal, and Mexico—were also included in the design, “with that of the United States at the point of honor above the statue

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Figure 70  California Building, 1914. Donald G. Larson Collection on International Expositions and Fairs, Special Collections Research Collection, California State University, Fresno, EXP9153.119pc-12.

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of Serra.”71 Thus the United States was placed above Spain once again. The people populating postcard views of the San Diego Exposition, like those produced for San Francisco, were usually added to photographs of empty fairgrounds taken before the opening of the exposition. Given that this image is copyrighted 1914, the California Building exists in these photographs as a trace of reality, while the people who populate the forecourt do not. The Spanish Colonial architecture allowed visitors at the San Diego Exposition to imagine a new history for the United States, one that foregrounded a version of the past different from the national history promoted at such earlier fairs as the 1876 Centennial and 1893 Columbian Exposition.72 Even so, the Spanish Colonial Revival, a qualified kind of revival, depends on its adjective for meaning, whereas the Colonial Revival needs no qualifier to be understood as English.73 Postcards depicting this Spanish fantasy city show fair visitors walking down the main promenade of the PCE, known as the Prado, and exiting the elaborately sculpted façade of the Foreign and Domestic Arts Building (plate 20). The doorway to this building, like that ornamentation on the Palace of Varied Industries in San Francisco, was loosely derived from the Hospital de Santa Cruz in Toledo, stripped of its specifically Castilian religious iconography. While the PPIE version transformed the sixteenth-century sculptural program from a glorification of the Holy Cross to images of labor and commerce, in San Diego the figural ornamentation was replaced by stylized plant forms. Men in business suits, women in floor-length walking skirts, long-sleeved blouses, and hats to protect their pale skin from the sun, and Pinkerton guards, costumed as colorful Spanish grenadiers to make them seem less imposing, populated the Spanish city designed by Goodhue and his team. The architectural sources for the San Diego fair were eclectic in terms of time and place; some were derived from photographs of Spanish, Mexican, and occasionally Italian buildings, while others were the product of the architects’ imaginations. The somatic participation of visitors within the material fabric of the San Diego fair strengthened the sense of affect to create a communal sense of belonging. As in San Francisco, the inclusion of visitors in such images and the ability of postcards to travel through the mail extended this version of history to an expanded segment of the population.

On Mission Bells and Liberty Bells Multiple versions of the past provide the United States with a nuanced and multilayered history, but they also come into conflict, especially when one threatens to unseat the privileged position of another. Event organizers in both San Francisco and San Diego invited members of the state’s dwindling Californio population to participate in special events held before and during their expositions. “Nick”

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Covarrubias and Conchita Sepúlveda obligingly played their parts as Spanish explorer and carnival queen in San Francisco’s Portola Festivals, and José Guadalupe Estudillo appeared as himself, a venerable San Diegan who had devoted his life to public service, at the southern California PCE.74 Estudillo was the grandson of José María Estudillo, a commander at the San Diego Presidio who built a modest adobe-block home in Old Town San Diego in 1829. The structure, which still stands today, was expanded over the following decades, housing in addition to the residence a school, store, courthouse, and small Catholic chapel. The family continued to live on the property until 1887, leaving it in the hands of a caretaker who began advertising it to the public as the site of Ramona’s wedding and opened it for tourism. The Estudillos sold the property in 1906, after which it fell into the hands of John D. Spreckels, who owned the San Diego Electric Railway Company. Architect Hazel Wood Waterman was hired to “restore” the home, providing it with an appropriately antimodern appearance of age and obsolescence, and Ramona’s “marriage place” reopened to the public in 1910. Visitors to the Estudillo House in the early twentieth century, in the words of cultural historian Dydia DeLyser, who examines the Spanish fantasy in her book Ramona Memories, “engaged in the world of the fictional in the landscape of fact.”75 José Guadalupe Estudillo had been a member of the San Diego Board of Trustees when the city voted on May 26, 1868, to set aside fourteen hundred acres of land for what eventually became Balboa Park. Estudillo Day was therefore celebrated on May 26, 1915. A photograph recording the ceremony on the porch of the Sacramento Valley Building shows PCE president Aubrey Davidson handing the eminent septuagenarian a commemorative scroll, while Margaret Allen, local author of a book called Ramona’s Homeland, looks on (fig. 71). Estudillo is elegantly attired in a vested suit and bow tie; he holds a hat and walking cane in his right hand and his left hand is gloved. Davidson is also formally dressed, with top hat removed in deference to the occasion. While Estudillo has turned to pose for the photographer, Davidson looks at his guest of honor. Allen has been distracted and looks off in the opposite direction. This same photograph, along with another, showing Estudillo addressing an audience seated for his speech, was reproduced on the front page of the San Diego Union (fig. 72). Allen’s sideward glance was resolved by cutting her out of the right portion of the photograph and superimposing her into the center, behind and between the two men. A photo of the “Spanish dancers who performed in honor of the pioneer” was placed immediately below. The Spanish Troupe, a regular feature of the fair, was hired to walk through the grounds, flirt with visitors, and perform the occasional dance.76 Some photographs of the troupe show the men dressed in the traditional dark clothing of the tunas, musical groups of university students who performed for money as early

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as the thirteenth century and continue to perform in Spain today. Other photos show them in clothing associated with the bullfight and flamenco. The women were always dressed in Andalusian flamenco costumes, and despite their Spanish attire, a few sources called them Mexican.77 In this instance, Estudillo was called a pioneer, not an explorer, to say nothing of conquistador. He presented himself in a quiet and dignified manner, while the “Spanish dancers,” by contrast, who performed for money at the fair and were probably not even from Spain, behaved in a sexy, transgressive way. Spanishness, like race and gender, is inflected by class. María Amparo Ruiz de Burton made this observation in her historical novel The Squatter and the Don, which appeared in 1885, one year after Jackson’s Ramona. In her novel, Ruiz de Burton tracked the declining fortunes of an old Californio family that is gradually dispossessed of its land. Only when Gabriel Alamar loses his position at a bank and is forced to take

Figure 71  José Guadalupe Estudillo Is Exposition’s Honored Guest, 1915. Bill Davidson Collection, Panama-California Exposition Digital Archive, photo_bd_02.

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Figure 72  “San Diego Welcomes Park Founder,” San Diego Union, May 27, 1915, 1, in G. Aubrey Davidson Scrapbook #2, p. 13 (detail). The Committee of One Hundred, Panama-California Exposition Digital Archive, c100_2012_019.

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employment in manual labor does his Anglo wife recognize the prejudice of her fashionable friends: “The fact that Gabriel was a native Spaniard, she saw plainly militated against them. If he had been rich, his nationality could have been forgiven, but no one will willingly tolerate a poor native Californian.”78 Longtime Spanish-speaking families in California were more esteemed than newcomers, and how one made a living—along with the corollary question of how much property one controlled—played a role as well. Estudillo had a place at the fair because he had been on the committee that led to the creation of Balboa Park. Margaret Allen, who published Ramona’s Homeland in 1914 to mark the thirtieth anniversary of Jackson’s novel, was one of the many who sought to prove the veracity of the Spanish fantasy.79 Theories regarding the “real” setting for Jackson’s novel abounded, with many arguing that the author used Rancho Camulos, sixty miles northwest of Los Angeles, as the primary site for the action. Others preferred Rancho Guajome in San Diego County. Allen’s book served as a promotional tool for the city of San Diego, so she used the idea that Ramona had been married in Old Town to anchor the historical “truth” of her story. Allen also promoted San Diego’s importance as the site of the first California mission, including a photograph of “the old San Diego Mission” as the frontispiece to her volume and a photograph of nearby “San Louis Rey Mission,” with its famous bell tower, later in the text. Two large mission bells also appear in Allen’s photograph “The Church at Old Town,” which depicts Estudillo’s former home in Old Town San Diego, advertised by 1915 as the site of Ramona’s wedding. Bell towers with and without bells ornamented many of the PCE buildings as well. The belfry on the west façade of the California Building was the most prominent of these landmarks, although there is no evidence that it contained any real bells at the time of the exposition. The Indian Arts Building (also known as the Arts and Crafts Building) on the Plaza de Panama, the Varied Industries Building on the Prado, and the Food Products Building right behind it did have actual bells in their towers, which were built in both the mission and Spanish Colonial style. Souvenir bells could also be purchased at the fair. One of these cast-metal pieces, designed to commemorate both the PPIE and the PCE, includes a view of the Golden Gate, flanked by a ’49er and a Native American warrior (in full Plains headdress) on one side, and the San Diego Mission, with a Franciscan friar and a Mexican wearing a sombrero, on the other.80 Similar mementos were produced and marketed at the California missions. Shaped like a shepherd’s staff with a bell hanging from its end, some were miniature replicas of the guideposts designed during this decade by the El Camino Real Association to promote tourism and the development of the road traversed by automobile enthusiasts traveling from one mission to the next.81

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At San Diego, missions and mission bells appeared both on the fairgrounds proper and in the fair’s amusement zone, known as “the Isthmus.” Formal fairgrounds had been physically separated from world’s fair entertainment strips by the late nineteenth century. In Paris at the Exposition Universelle of 1889, the Machinery, Liberal Arts, and Fine Arts Palaces joined the Eiffel Tower on the Champ de Mars, while the colonial exhibits, exotic dancers, and other more lowbrow displays were on the Esplanade des Invalides. In Chicago, the Beaux-Arts White City housed official displays, while the Midway offered a variety of popular forms of entertainment. Allusions to Spain’s history in the United States did not fit neatly into one place or the other, however. Thomas P. Getz, the actor and concessionaire who took over the lease on Ramona’s Marriage Place in 1910, charged ten cents for visitors to see “California and the Missions” on the PCE isthmus. The image that best shows Getz’s mission-style theater is a photographic postcard taken from the center of the strip looking north (fig. 73). The left side of the composition is dominated by a Ferris wheel and the right by the theater showing Getz’s mission play, with mission bells hanging from the second story of the structure. Plunging orthogonal lines send the viewer’s eyes down the street into the background, where the red, white, and blue U.S. flag waves gaily in the center. Patriotic symbols of the nation, whether a heraldic seal adorning the topmost section of the California Building or the U.S. flag marking the focal point of the exposition’s pleasure zone, are invariably found in positions of power, subjugating regional history to national authority. The Alhambra Cafeteria, likewise on the isthmus, provided fairgoers with another introduction to Spanishness at the San Diego fair. Philadelphia’s Liberty Bell also made a special appearance at the two California expositions. One of the more publicized (and controversial) events planned for the fairs was the transfer by railway of the Liberty Bell across the continent for display on the western shores of the nation. The bell had been on view at both the Philadelphia and Chicago Expositions, leading Californians to propose a similar appearance at the PPIE, but East Coast patriots proud of their English roots, among them members of the Philadelphia chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR), objected to the tour on the grounds that the bell, with its famous crack, might suffer further damage. For proponents of the trip, including some five hundred thousand children who signed petitions strategically circulated through the school system, bringing the bell out west offered an effective method of promoting feelings of belonging for residents in faraway California and tying the state’s growing and diverse population together under the banner of U.S. citizenship. The Liberty Bell made a much bigger impression in San Francisco than in San Diego. San Francisco, the fair with national pretensions, welcomed the bell with much pomp and circumstance. Liberty Bell Day was held on July 17, and an

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illustrated souvenir program was published to provide visitors with a complete history of the relic and a listing of corollary events. The bell arrived that day via rail and was welcomed by San Francisco mayor James Rolph, California governor Hiram Johnson, and Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives Champ Clark before being escorted by military troops to its temporary home at the fair. Forty-­ eight children, representing the number of states in the Union, placed wreaths on the bell, and men dressed in (English) colonial military uniforms waved the flag and played the fife and drums (fig. 74). Once installed in the rotunda of the Pennsylvania Building, which was designed, as in Chicago, to look like Independence Hall, the DAR formed an honor guard and kept a wreath of immortelles and fresh flowers crowning the bell at all times.82 The Liberty Bell remained in San Francisco for several months before continuing its journey south, arriving in San Diego for a brief three-day visit on November 12, 1915. Here, the DAR was largely ignored; its incongruously outfitted English colonial tea room in the Indian Arts Building was rarely entered by visitors to the fair.83 Rather than produce new photographs of the bell in San Diego for postcards and souvenirs, marketers simply reissued San Francisco images and gave

Figure 73  4418. “The Isthmus” Amusement Street, T. P. Getz famous Mission Play at right, ca. 1915. Rosemary Anne Phelan Photo Collection, PanamaCalifornia Exposition Digital Archive, pc_jp_0187.

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Figure 74  The Liberty Bell, in The Blue Book: A Comprehensive Official Souvenir View Book of the Panama-Pacific International Exposition at San Francisco, 1915 (San Francisco: Robert A. Reid, 1915), 152.

them new labels. One informal snapshot taken at the PCE even shows the Liberty Bell, iconic symbol of the English colonial past, sitting in forlorn neglect in San Diego’s Plaza de Panama (fig. 75). The foreground is stained by dark diagonal lines of spilled liquid that run inexplicably across the central plaza; track marks from a wheeled vehicle cross into the image and careen chaotically toward the right. Behind are the Science and Education and the Sacramento Valley Buildings, built in the Spanish Colonial Revival style. It is a disturbing photograph, suggesting just how disjunctive multiple versions of U.S. history can be. Damaged by a crack that prevents it from being struck, the Liberty Bell was silent at the San Diego fair.

Mexicans at the Fair Who was invited to “meet me in San Diego” and share in California’s Spanish history? The Spanish had little to do with either of these fairs. Spain had been

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marginalized, if not entirely erased, by 1915, and officials in Madrid were focusing their energy on renewing Spanish cultural ties with Latin America instead. With the absence of an official Spanish presence in California, organizers in San Francisco and San Diego were free to appropriate and imagine their own versions of Spain and California’s Spanish past. Visitors to San Diego in 1915 took advantage of this imagined history, immersed themselves in the architectural milieu, and danced the fandango in the Plaza de Panama, one of the most popular manifestations of embodied experience provided by the San Diego fair (fig. 76). Unlike the postcards with visitors brushed in, a photograph from Sunset Magazine, a magazine designed to promote tourism in the western United States, depicts both real architecture and actual fairgoers adopting and enjoying the Spanish fantasy heritage. “Al fresco balls have contributed regularly to the gaiety of the southern California fair. The cement pavement of the Plaza de Panama, soapstoned for the occasion, made an excellent dancing floor,” explains the caption. In the background is the Sacramento Valley Building, where Estudillo had received his commemorative scroll, but the dancers in this photograph do not speak Spanish. Like the thousands of non-Hispanic visitors who signed the massive official guest book, now housed in the San Diego History Center, readers of Sunset Magazine,

Figure 75  Liberty Bell in the Plaza de Panama, 1915. Donald G. Larson Collection on International Expositions and Fairs, Special Collections Research Collection, California State University, Fresno, EXP915e.3a.

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Figure 76  The Fantango at the San Diego Exposition, in Sunset Magazine 35 (October 1915): 646.

English-speaking participants in California’s Spanish fantasy, rarely socialized with Spanish-speaking residents of the United States. Mexicans, many of whom worked as gardeners and construction workers in San Diego, provided the invisible labor that made the California fairs possible. These are the men posed formally in a photograph before what is obviously a backdrop inviting others, in a play on the slogan for the St. Louis fair, to “meet me in San Diego” (see fig. 65). Why are they dressed this way? How did they understand California’s Spanish fantasy? And who were they inviting to meet them in San Diego? The photograph is one of several taken by Joseph Collins in his downtown San Diego photography studio during the fair. Other images in the series suggest that sitters could choose from a variety of different costumes for their date with the photographer. While some of these sitters wear their own attire, others have clearly donned costumes for their photographic performance. Loretta Orozco, one of the few identified sitters, was eighteen years old, the firstborn child of Daniel Orozco and Nina Ruis, when she visited the studio in 1915 (fig. 77).84 Orozco’s family had been in southern California for several generations; her mother was from the small town of Julian, sixty miles east of

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Figure 77  Joseph R. Collins, Meet Me in San Diego: Loretta Orozco, ca. 1915. San Diego History Center, OP 15559.

San Diego in the Cuyamaca Mountains. Julian is in an area that was once part of Rancho Cuyamaca, a Mexican land grant owned by Agustín Olvera, who, like other Californios, lost his property following U.S. annexation. The Orozco family may have arrived there during the early 1870s, when the town sprang up to serve miners rushing to the area during a short-lived gold rush. Loretta Orozco is comfortably attired for her photograph in a white shirt, belted Norfolk jacket, and long dark skirt. She also sports a fashionable hat with a white feather in the center. The painted backdrop is clearly visible in this photograph. Orozco stands on the right, leaving the Cabrillo Bridge, the Ferris wheel, and the bell tower in plain view on the left.

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Another photograph from the same series, a real photo postcard known as Man Seated with Pistol and Rifle, Woman Standing, is different, displaying a dark kind of humor (fig. 78). The couple hold a cane rod between them from which hangs a large dead fish, while the man, with rifle in his lap, points a pistol in the direction of his wife.85 Yet another photo from the series depicts two women, one dressed as an “Indian princess”—she wears a buckskin dress and feathered headdress and holds a long gun at her side—and the other as a cross-dressed “cowboy” with pistol in its holster and saber in hand. Visual documentation and the personal subjectivities of the people visiting San Diego for the fair move as fluidly from the real to the imaginary as the story of Ramona and the place of her marriage. While the photograph of fandango dancers in the Plaza de Panama records the existence of real architecture and real people, many of the photographic postcards of the fair depict real architecture and imagined people brushed in with paint. In the “Meet Me in San Diego” series of photographs, the situation is reversed: the architecture in the series is provided by a painted backdrop before which real people stand. Some obviously perform a masquerade, while others do not. Scholars rightly observe that California’s Spanish fantasy produced a safely European and racially pure history that ignored Mexico’s presence in the Southwest and the mixed-race ethnicities of many Mexican Americans in the United States. As early as the 1840s, notes historian Antonia Castañeda, Mexican women in California were depicted as either Mexican, who were Indian, dark, sexual, and bad, or as Spanish, who were European, white, aristocratic, and good.86 Charles Montgomery and William Deverell have likewise examined how Spanishness was used to turn Mexicans into assimilated Europeans in the U.S. Southwest.87 George Sánchez, an early activist on behalf of Chicanos and educational reform, noted the irony of this strategy, arguing in the postwar era that both Spanish and Mexican cultures were fusions. Sánchez, notes Joseph Rodríguez, “celebrated the hybridity of Spanish culture . . . and questioned the whole notion of Spanish culture as pure compared to mestizaje.”88 The Spanish were Christian, Muslim, and Jewish, to say nothing—as at the 1888 Barcelona fair—of Catalan, Basque, Andalusian, and Castilian.89 Literary historian Héctor Calderón has ruminated poignantly in his book Narratives of Greater Mexico on his childhood performance of Spanishness at “heritage days” in Calexico, on the U.S. side of the Mexican border, in relation to anti-Spanish sentiments expressed by family and friends across the line in Mexicali.90 The meaning and value of Spanishness depended upon where one was standing. Spanishness became especially unpopular in the United States during the late 1960s, when Chicano activists rejected Spanish colonialism and embraced an oppressed Indigenous (and mestizo) identity instead.91 Some argued that the prestige of claiming Spanishness obscured the losses suffered by the denial of Indigenous and mestizo heritage. Others, like George J. Sánchez and Matthew Bokovoy,

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Figure 78  Joseph R. Collins, Meet Me in San Diego: Man Seated with Pistol and Rifle, Woman Standing, ca. 1915. San Diego History Center, AB-114-46.

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hope that a recognition of Spanishness in all its complexity, acknowledging how it has been used to homogenize a diverse population and been reinvented by revisionists eager to rescue that diversity at any cost, may lead to some measure of intercultural understanding and a more equitable society. Sánchez calls on scholars to abandon the bipolar model of opposing cultures and embrace “the possibility of multiple identities and contradictory positions” instead.92 I have taken the same position in writing this book. Recognition of the “Spanish element in our nationality” in all its complexity will make the United States a better place. Scholars today recognize the diversity of Mexican American experience, which includes that of the native Spanish-speaking residents living in the Southwest at the time of the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the educated and politically active Mexican population exiled in the United States during the dictatorship of Porfirio Díaz, and the early twentieth-century Mexican immigrant population, pushed by the violence of the Mexican Revolution and pulled by economic development in the United States. Nicolás Kanellos recognized this in his exhaustive historical survey of Spanish-language newspapers and magazines in the United States, which chronicles the overlapping and competing interests of these diverse groups of people.93 Interests and positions change over time. La Crónica, founded in San Francisco in April 1914 as “the only Spanish newspaper published in San Francisco,” was rebranded only six months later as “the official organ for the defense of the Latin American community.” The first slogan was in English, whereas the second, “el órgano oficial para la defensa de las colonias Latino-Americanas,” acknowledging the expanded scope of its readership, was in Spanish. Early issues, which included articles by Spain’s Conde de Salazar and a series of letters debating whether and why Spain should participate at the PPIE, turned increasingly toward Mexico and Latin America during the course of its brief three-year run.94 Estudillo represented the first (and most elite) group of Hispanic Americans at the fairs; Conchita Sepúlveda stood for another, and Loretta Orozco another still. The Mexican gardeners in the photograph were among the most recent arrivals in California. They were temporary workers, their status insecure, and their presence was regarded with ambivalence by those who preceded them. Participation in and response to the Spanish fantasy by these differing communities varied dramatically depending upon personal history, political allegiance, and class background. José Guadalupe Estudillo, scion of an old Californio family, enjoyed a special day at the PCE, while the men in Collins’s photograph labored to convert the land into the beautiful city park that housed the exposition. Invited to work (rather than dance) at the fair, they probably lived in one of the hundred small bunkhouses, four persons to each house, built for an otherwise transitory workforce. Those who rented this provisional housing, which was located in the center of the park, far from downtown San Diego, could purchase

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their meals at the large segregated restaurant constructed next door for their use. “A shifting force means loss of efficiency in the organization and loss of efficiency means increased cost,” remarked one economically minded observer, proud of this solution.95 The bunkhouses, restaurant, and a hospital to care for those injured on the job were funded with fees paid by the workers themselves. They were built on Midland Drive, renamed El Paseo for the fair. The number of people who crossed the border from Mexico into the United States more than quadrupled during the first two decades of the twentieth century, from 49,500 during the years 1901–1910 to 219,000 from 1911 to 1920.96 Some of those who arrived in San Diego worked as gardeners at the PCE; flowers, plants, and trees were integral to the fair and its promotion of southern California as an agricultural paradise. “The San Diego Exposition will be a floral and a horticultural wonder,” boasted organizers at the groundbreaking in 1911, and thousands of bushes, vines, and trees had already been planted by the end of the next year.97 During 1912, “the record of tree and shrub planting on the exposition grounds has kept pace with that made by the men with the teams, the pick and shovel, and the annual report from the landscape gardeners shows that over fifty thousand trees and shrubs have been placed. It may appear that this is a large number, but this work has only begun and the record for the year constitutes only a small part of that outlined, and which must be done to realize the plan of the exposition.”98 Men, many of them Mexican, tended plants in the nurseries, tilled fields for model orchards, and planted large numbers of eucalyptus and palm trees in the park’s canyons and Spanish-themed streets.99 Some of these workers are visible in photographs taken between 1910 and 1915 by Ralph Stineman, who documented construction of the buildings and landscaping of the grounds (figs. 79 and 80).100 Textual information about these people at the fair is scarce; such photographs are among the few pieces of evidence that remain. One photograph captures men driving mules through a dusty field behind the Administration Building, while another depicts a group of laborers transplanting a large palm tree. A hole has been dug to the right, and the workers are preparing to move the mammoth palm into place. Two members of the crew stand at left, steadying a rope used to keep the tree from toppling. While most of the men are engaged in this hard physical labor, wearing overalls or baggy work pants with suspenders, two in the foreground are dressed differently. The foreman in front of the tree wears a nicely fitted vest over a white shirt, with sleeves rolled up as if he is ready to pitch in if necessary. A golf cap atop his head, he gestures with one arm and appears to be giving instructions to the crew. At the left, a supervisor in suit and tie passively watches the action; a lightweight summer hat shields his eyes and face from the bright California sun. Hats help viewers correlate the men and their actions with general information about the period, nationality, and class of the individuals involved.

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Figure 79  Ralph P. Stineman, Men and Mules Preparing Land Near the Administration Building, ca. 1915. San Diego History Center, PA 217-47 OP.

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The men in Stineman’s photograph wear hats in large part to shade their eyes from the glare, but the hats of the four Mexican gardeners in Collins’s photograph serve a different function. These men are inside the photographer’s studio, and two have even removed their headwear and placed it on their laps. Hats in the early twentieth century were an important accessory, and “the complexities of the protocols of headgear remained rigid and class bound.”101 The boys standing in the back, like their father, wear fedoras, which were preferred for weekends and leisure activities. Businessmen usually wore derbies, like the one held by the seated friend at right. The clothing worn by the father and his sons is likewise more casual— they wear sport jackets and trousers—than the double-breasted suit worn by their friend. California, far from the business centers of the East, has always offered a more diverse range of sartorial options than New York or Chicago.102 Hats, suits, and sport jackets were widely available in the early twentieth century, and at a much lower cost than they had been in the nineteenth. They were often mass produced and could be purchased off the rack. Art historian John Berger used the increased availability of suits in the early twentieth century to examine a photograph taken by August Sander of three German peasants going to a dance. Berger was fascinated by the way these young men’s bodies, accustomed to the rigors of labor, failed to fit into their suits in the same way as the men for whom they had been made, men who supervised others. The suit “was the first ruling class costume to idealise purely sedentary power,” Berger points out. “It was

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a costume which inhibited vigorous action, and which action ruffled, uncreased and spoilt.”103 In Stineman’s photograph, the gardeners wear work clothes and the supervisor wears a suit. In Collins’s, the four Mexican men wear suits, like their supervisor. Mimicry as a strategy, observes Homi Bhabha, serves dual purposes in colonial systems.104 For those in power, mimicry (i.e., assimilation) is a way to convey the illusion of independence to their wards, while at the same time remaining in power. For the subjugated, it is used to appease the governing rulers while still maintaining cultural and social autonomy; mimicry becomes a strategy of resistance. This ambivalence, like “the Spanish element in our nationality,” needs to be embraced. The “Meet Me in San Diego” photograph may have been made to show those back in Jalisco the extent of these men’s economic success. It may have been made to encourage other family and friends to join them. Or, like the world’s fairs, it may have been a masquerade. What is known for certain is that on one sunny day in San Diego, four Mexican gardeners left their temporary quarters to go downtown, exchange their work clothes for suits and hats, and sit for a photograph, evidence that these Americans, too, were at the San Diego fair.

Figure 80  Ralph P. Stineman, Transplanting a Palm Tree, ca. 1915. San Diego History Center, PA 217-23 OP.

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no t e s

Introduction 1. Whitman, “Spanish Element,” 388. 2. Fernández-Armesto, Our America, xxvii. 3. Shortcut and O’Pagus, Our Show, 9. 4. Ibid. 5. For an introduction to the topic, see Boone, Vistas de España; Carr and Águeda Villar, Legacy; Pierce, New England/New Spain; Colomer, Pons-Sorolla, and Roglán, Sorolla in America; Jaksic, Hispanic World; Kagan, Spain in America; Pons-Sorolla, Sorolla and America; Reist and Colomer, Collecting Spanish Art; and Sullivan, Nueva York, 1613–1945. 6. For just two examples, see Groseclose and Wierich, Internationalizing the History; Elkins, Is Art History Global? 7. See Navascués and Quesada Martín, Siglo XIX; Reyero and Freixa, Pintura y escultura en España. 8. González López and Martí Ayxelá, Pintores españoles en París; González López and Martí Ayxelá, Pintores españoles en Roma; Calvo Serraller, García Felguera, and Pérez de Ayala, Iconografía de Sevilla; Díez, Pintura de historia; Carnero and Díez, Mundo literario; Castaño, Jardines de España; and Jiménez Burillo et al., Luz de gas. 9. Gutiérrez Márquez, Pintura del siglo XIX. For an earlier and less comprehensive catalogue, see Díez and Barón, Siglo XIX en el Prado. 10. Diego Otero, Mujer y la pintura; López Fernández, Imagen de la mujer. 11. Vázquez, Inventing the Art Collection; Luxenberg, Galerie Espagnole; and Charnon-Deutsch, Hold That Pose. 12. Coates, “Pan-American Lobbyist,” 23–24. See also Boone, “1910 Centenary Exhibition,” 196–97; McPherson, “Antiyanquismo.” 13. Tenorio Trillo, Historia y celebración, 209. 14. Katz Montiel, Music and Identity, ix.

15. Law, Here and There, 111. 16. González-Stephan, “Showcases of Consumption,” 228–30. 17. Renan, “What Is a Nation?”; Benjamin, “Paris.” 18. See, for just a few examples, Benedict et al., Anthropology of World’s Fairs; Bennett, “Exhibitionary Complex”; Karp and Lavine, Exhibiting Cultures; Rydell, All the World’s a Fair; Greenhalgh, Ephemeral Vistas; and Wilson, “Consuming History.” 19. Çelik, “Speaking Back to Orientalist Discourse”; Mitchell, “World as Exhibition”; Fernández Bravo, “Ambivalent Argentina”; and Rogers, “Colonial Imitation.” 20. Giberti, Designing the Centennial; Brown, Health and Medicine on Display; Vaccaro, Beyond the Ice Cream Cone; and Fauser, Musical Encounters. 21. González-Stephan and Andermann, Galerías del progreso; Gutiérrez, Reencuentro entre España y Argentina; Ibarra, “Centenario”; Lempérière, “Dos centenarios de la independencia”; Norambuena Ca­ rrasco, “Imagen de América Latina”; Ramírez, “Dioses, héroes y reyes”; and Tenorio Trillo, Mexico at the World’s Fairs. 22. See Wolff, Social Production of Art. 23. Suleiman and Crosman, Reader in the Text. 24. Rose, Visual Methodologies, 16–28. 25. Johnston, Seeing High and Low, 3–4. 26. Connerton, How Societies Remember, 1–5. 27. Jones, Global Work of Art, x. 28. See Nora, “Between Memory and History”; Gillis, Commemorations; Spillman, Nation and Commemoration; and Misztal, Theories of Social Remembering. 29. Bourne, “Trans-National America,” 86. 30. Pratt, Imperial Eyes; Bhabha, Location of Culture; and García Canclini, Hybrid Cultures. 31. Dean and Leibsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discontents”; Mancini and Leibsohn, “American Art’s Western Horizons.”

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32. Levitt and Khagram, “Constructing Transnational Studies.” See also Demattè, “Confucian Education for Europeans,” 43–44. 33. Clavin, “Defining Transnationalism,” 421. 34. Spivak, Death of a Discipline, 1–24. 35. Phillips, “Aesthetic Primitivism Revisited,” 10. 36. See Boone and Greer, “Forum.” 37. See Guerrero Acosta, Bernardo de Gálvez. 38. Manuel Roig-Franzia, “A Picture of Persistence in Honoring a Spanish Hero of the Revolutionary War,” Washington Post, October 30, 2014. 39. John D. McKinnon, “Pope Francis Visits Statue of St. Junipero Serra at Capitol,” Wall Street Journal, September 24, 2015. 40. Michael E. Miller, “Junípero Serra Statue Defaced Days After Canonization by Pope Francis,” Washington Post, September 28, 2015; Kate Linthicum, “Shock After Junipero Serra Statue Vandalized Days After Sainthood Declared,” Los Angeles Times, September 28, 2015. 41. On the Leyenda Negra (Black Legend), a term defined by Julián Juderías in 1913, see García Cárcel, Leyenda negra. In English, see Gibson, Black Legend; Powell, Tree of Hate; Sánchez, Spanish Black Legend; and Hillgarth, Mirror of Spain. 42. Pike, “Latin America and the Inversion.” See also Tony Horwitz, “Immigration—and the Curse of the Black Legend,” New York Times, July 9, 2006. 43. For example, see Simon Romero, “Indian Slavery Once Thrived in New Mexico; Latinos Are Finding Family Ties to It,” New York Times, January 28, 2018. 44. Pew Research Center, “Hispanic Trends,” http://www .pewhispanic.org. See also Stephen Burgen, “US Now Has More Spanish Speakers Than Spain: Only Mexico Has More,” Guardian (U.S. edition), June 29, 2015. 45. Yzaguirre and Aponte, Willful Neglect; Carr and Águeda Villar, Legacy; and Ramos, Our America. 46. Morotinos and Molina, “Statement from Spain’s Minister,” ix. 47. Sullivan, Nueva York, 1613–1945, 6, 22. 48. Wallace, “Nueva York,” 19–20. 49. James Chute, “At SDMA, Answer to Art Prayers,” San Diego Union-Tribune, January 18, 2015. 50. Payne, “Spain in U.S. History.” 51. Alfonso, Exposición del centenar, 117.

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Chapter 1 Strahan, Smith, and Wilson, Masterpieces of the Centennial, 1:243–44. 2. “Exposiciones y Concursos, C/F, Exposición Universal de Filadelfia,” July 15, 1873, file H 3210, AMAE. 3. Ibid., July 15, 1873. 4. Ibid., February 21, 1874. 5. Ibid., April 30, 1874. 6. Rydell, All the World’s a Fair, 9–37; Schlereth, “Material Universe,” 267–77. Introductions to the Philadelphia Centennial may also be found in Giberti, Designing the Centennial; Gold, Unfinished Exhibition; and Orcutt, Power and Posterity. 7. “Exposiciones y Concursos, C/F, Exposición Universal de Filadelfia,” October 5, 1874, and January 2, 1875, file H 3210, AMAE. 8. Ibid., October 6 and 24, 1874. 9. Ibid., November 28 and 29, 1874. 10. Ibid., March 20 and May 1, 1875. 11. Ibid., July 8, 1875. 12. Ibid., August 13 and 14, 1875. 13. López Fabra also brought back a collection of loose cartes de visite of people he met in Philadelphia. The loose photographs are in the AGP, and the album is in the RBPR. 14. Moradiellos, “Spain in the World,” 110. 15. “Exposiciones y Concursos, C/F, Exposición Universal de Filadelfia,” August 13, 1875, file H 3210, AMAE. 16. López Fabra, Memoria administrativa, 8. 17. Escobar, Exposición de Filadelfia, 94, 97. 18. López Fabra, Memoria administrativa, 18. 19. Kamen, Imagining Spain, xii. Also useful for understanding national identity formation in Spain is Pérez Vejo, España imaginada. 20. Alfonso, Exposición del centenar, 118. 21. “The Centennial: Signs of Progress Everywhere,” New York Times, March 10, 1876, 1. 22. Ibid. 23. López Fabra, Memoria administrativa, 9–10. 24. United States Centennial Commission (hereafter USCC), International Exhibition, 1876: Official Catalogue, part 1, 270–79. See also the Lista preparatoria del catálogo. 25. “Centennial Quarter Day (by Gar),” New York Times, August 27, 1876, 1. 1.

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26. McCabe, Illustrated History of the Centennial, 410. 27. Escobar, Exposición de Filadelfia, 236. 28. Strahan, Smith, and Wilson, Masterpieces of the Centennial, 2:154, 156 (illus.), 184 (illus.), 191, 238 (illus.). See also “Characteristics of the International Fair: Closing Days,” 99. 29. “Characteristics of the International Fair: II,” 239. 30. López Fabra, Memoria administrativa, 10. 31. Kamen, Imagining Spain, 74–85. See also Eastman, Preaching Spanish Nationalism, 1–13. 32. Escobar, Exposición de Filadelfia, 296, 301. 33. Juliano Philadelpho, “Cartas de Filadelfia,” La Iberia (Madrid), April 16, 1876, 1. 34. Jordana y Morera, “Agricultura en la Exposición,” 203. See also part 2 of this article, 258–59. 35. Escobar, Exposición de Filadelfia, 301–2. 36. See Pérez, “Cubans in Nineteenth-Century New York.” 37. Both letters are in the “Sección de Pintura; Exposiciones y congresos; Exposición de Filadelfia, 1876– 77,” file 6–5–11, AASF. 38. Escobar, Exposición de Filadelfia, 443. 39. USCC, International Exhibition, 1876: Official Catalogue, part 3, 66. 40. Escobar, Exposición de Filadelfia, 152. 41. Roca y Galés, Obrero en Fairmount Park, 46–83. 42. Urgellés de Tovar, Cataluña en Filadelfia, 36–41. 43. López Fabra, Memoria administrativa, 11. 44. Ibid., 10–11; Escobar, Exposición de Filadelfia, 308–29. See also McCabe, Illustrated History of the Centennial, 612. 45. Cortázar y Larrubia, Memoria acerca de la Exposición, 277. 46. USCC, International Exhibition, 1876: Official Catalogue, part 3, 132–41. The Lista preparatoria del catálogo did list some of the government exhibits. 47. “Centennial Quarter Day (by Gar),” New York Times, August 27, 1876. 48. “Something of Memorial Hall (by Gar),” New York Times, May 7, 1876, 2; “The Great Exhibition (by Gar),” New York Times, May 19, 1876, 4. See also Carter, “Paintings at the Centennial,” 285. 49. Vázquez, Inventing the Art Collection, 117–18. 50. Gutiérrez Burón, “Enviados especiales,” 17. 51. Donadío quoted in “Art and the Centennial,” New York Times, February 5, 1876, 5.

52. Barón, “Spanish Presence,” 67 and n7. 53. Laguna Enrique, Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, 567–70; Reyero, Arte en el Senado, 260–62. 54. “Views at the Centennial (by Gar),” New York Times, May 15, 1876, 1. 55. Ibid. See also “Art at Philadelphia (by Gar),” New York Times, May 17, 1876, 4; “Great Exhibition (by Gar).” 56. See Jiménez-Blanco and Vallejo, Patrimonio histórico artístico, 72–75; Díez and Barón, Siglo XIX en el Prado, 266–72. 57. On the colonial revival, see Reason, Thomas Eakins; Carroll, “Of Kettles and Cranes”; Wilson, Eyring, and Marotta Re-Creating the American Past; Truettner and Stein, Picturing Old New England; Marling, George Washington Slept Here; and Axelrod, Colonial Revival in America. 58. Abrams, Pilgrims and Pocahontas, 252–59. 59. Gold, Unfinished Exhibition, 38–43. 60. Brown, Inventing New England, 9. 61. Nash, First City, 34–44. 62. Ferris, Gems of the Centennial Exhibition, 121–22. 63. Strahan, Smith, and Wilson, Masterpieces of the Centennial, 1:239. 64. Alexis, “Art at the Centennial,” New York Evening Mail, June 23, 1876, 1. 65. On anti-Catholicism, see Boone, Vistas de España, 52–58; Davis, “Catholic Envy”; and Manoguerra, “Anti-Catholicism.” 66. Burris, Exhibiting Religion, 97. 67. Bruce, Century: Its Fruits, 191. 68. “Views at the Centennial (by Gar).” See also NewYork Tribune Guide, 66, and [Fletcher], Centennial Exhibition of 1876, 19. 69. Ingram, Centennial Exposition, 519. 70. Mitchell, “In and About the Fair,” 893. 71. Griffin, Homer, Eakins, and Anshutz, 1–31. 72. Kamen, Imagining Spain, 172. 73. Norberto López de Valdemoro, Conde de Donadío, Bosquejo para mi memoria: Filadelfia 1876, file 6–5–11, AASF. 74. Director of the Academia de San Fernando to Joaquín Maldonado, Director General de la Instrucción Pública, Ministerio de Fomento, November 27–30, 1875, file 1–55–1, AASF. 75. Alfonso, Exposición del centenar, 177.

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76. “Sección de Pintura; Exposiciones y congresos; Exposición de Filadelfia, 1876–77,” file 6–5–11, AASF. For a list of the awards, see Expositores de España y sus provincias; USCC, International Exhibition, 1876: Reports, 7:704–6. On the awards controversy, see Orcutt, Power and Posterity, 193–204; Giberti, Designing the Centennial, 154–74. 77. López Fabra, Memoria administrativa, 29. 78. Alfonso, Exposición del centenar, 117, 172. 79. Barón, “Spanish Presence,” 77. 80. Alfonso, Exposición del centenar, 103. 81. Giberti, Designing the Centennial, 42. 82. Philadelphia Commission to Vienna, Vienna Exposition, 7. 83. Escobar, Exposición de Filadelfia, 364–65. 84. Ferris, “Technology, Novelty, and Modernity,” 46. 85. “Estados Unidos: Cataratas del Niágara,” La Ilustración Española y Americana 20 (June 8, 1876): 380–81; “Exposición de Filadelfia: Gran Catarata,” La Ilustración Española y Americana 20 (July 30, 1876): 53. 86. On the symbolism of the Liberty Bell, see Nash, First City, 2. 87. Alfonso, Exposición del centenar, 2. 88. Stillé quoted in López Fabra, Memoria administrativa, 41.

Chapter 2 1.

On Restoration Spain, see the essays in Álvarez Junco and Shubert, Spanish History Since 1808, 91–173. 2. Boyd, Historia Patria, 302. See also Álvarez Junco, Spanish Identity in the Age of Nations, and the excellent series of essays in Mar-Molinero and Smith, Nationalism and the Nation. 3. See Molina and Cabo Villaverde, “Inconvenient Nation”; Moreno Luzón, “Mitos de la España inmortal.” 4. Muñoz Torreblanca calls it “atypical” in “Barcelona’s Universal Exhibition,” 61. 5. On Serrano de Casanova, see Prados Tizón and Rodón Lluís, Eugenio R. Serrano de Casanova. 6. Lacál, Libro de honor, 11–22; Serrate, Estudios completos, part 1, xxiv–xxv; and Catálogo general oficial 1888, 6–9. 7. Jacobson, “Interpreting Municipal Celebrations,” 81. 8. Lacál, Libro de honor, 23–27. 9. Garrut, Exposició Universal, 9–12; Jacobson, “Interpreting Municipal Celebrations,” 83.

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10. Fundació Jaume I, Exposició del 88, 56–60. 11. Rius, Pau Audouard, 82–109. 12. One album, containing fifty photographs and dedicated to the queen regent, is in the RBPR. A second, consisting of sixty photos, is in the AFB, and a third, also with sixty photos, is at the Wolfsonian Library at Florida International University in Miami Beach. 13. Jacobson, “Interpreting Municipal Celebrations,” 85. See also Freixa, “Protomodernismo en la arquitectura,” 490–91. 14. Domènech i Montaner, “En busca de una arquitectura.” 15. Jacobson, “Interpreting Municipal Celebrations,” 86. 16. Serrate, Estudios completos, part 1, xxxii. 17. Jardí, “Influència de l’Exposició,” 62. 18. Charnon-Deutsch, Hold That Pose, 45–82. See also Vélez, “Artes gráficas y la industria”; Arranz, “Barcelona, ciudad empresa.” 19. “Sección de noticias,” 10. 20. “Inauguración,” 2–5; “Nuestros grabados,” May 30, 1888, 338–39. 21. Márquez, “Juan Comba y García.” 22. Asociación Artístico-Arqueológica Barcelonesa, Album de la Instalación Artístico-Arqueológica, unpaginated. See also the Catálogo general oficial 1888, 153–54. 23. Catálogo general oficial 1888, 591–607. See also Suárez and Vidal, “Movimiento de las artes decorativas.” 24. Serrate, Estudios completos, part 2, 212–14. 25. Pellicer, “Conferencia 7ª,” 183–85. 26. Molas y Casas, Gran Exposició, 61–72. 27. Yxart, “Exposición Universal de Barcelona.” The consul-­general of Mexico assigned to Spain, Manuel Payno, was more complimentary. See Payno, Barcelona y México, 326–28. 28. Tusell, “El tiempo histórico del modernismo,” in Tusell, Modernismo catalán, 26–27; Fontbona, “Renaixença in Art.” 29. Escala i Romeu, “Josep Lluís Pellicer.” 30. Jardí, “Influència de l’Exposició,” 70. 31. On modernisme, see Lord, “New Art: Modernisme”; Fontbona, “Definir el modernismo,” 37. 32. Pellicer, “Conferencia 7a,” 190. 33. Fontbona, “From the Sala Parés.” 34. Pellicer, “Conferencia 7a,” 191. 35. Trenc Ballester, “Art català de la Restauració,” 161–63. See also Trenc Ballester, “Costumbrismo, realismo y naturalismo,” 299–310.

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36. Storm, Culture of Regionalism, 56. 37. Freixa, “Protomodernismo en la arquitectura,” 495–96. 38. Yxart, “Exposición Universal de Barcelona.” Ellipses in the original. 39. Seven gold medals were awarded to Barcelona painters, compared to two for Madrid. “Lista oficial de premios”; Lacál, Libro de honor, 245–49. 40. Planella painted two versions of this painting, the second of which is in the Museu d’Història de Catalunya. See Bejarano Veiga, “Niña obrera, de Juan Planella.” 41. Wile, “Watteau, Reverie, and Selfhood,” 319–21. 42. Karp-Lugo, “Catalan Artists in Paris,” 112. 43. Tayadella, “Corrientes literarias.” 44. Jacobson, “Interpreting Municipal Celebrations,” 97. See also Comalada Negre, “Exposición Universal y las peticiones”; Ainaud de Lasarte, “Missatge a la reina regent.” 45. Jacobson, “Interpreting Municipal Celebrations,” 97. 46. The caption “La Llufa del Ajuntament” is a play on words, for the Catalan word llufa can mean both a practical joke and a silent fart. Many thanks to my friend Jesús Tejada at the Universitat de València for helping me through the Catalan slang in this political cartoon. 47. Jacobson, “Interpreting Municipal Celebrations,” 103. 48. Calderwood, “‘In Andalucía, There Are No Foreigners,’” 399. See also Calderwood, “Invention of al-­Andalus.” 49. Alonso and Cleminson, “Sujetos frágiles.” See also Storm, “Regionalism in History,” 260. 50. Frontaura, “Barcelona en 1888,” 367. 51. “Exposiciones y Concursos, Paris, 1889,” file 3220, AMAE. 52. Viera de Miguel, “Imaginario visual español,” 537; Viera de Miguel, “Absolutisme, fanatisme et orientalisme,” 101–3. 53. Viera de Miguel, “Imaginario visual español,” 544–45. See also “Baile de gitanas en el teatro de la exposición” (after a drawing by Luis Jiménez Aranda), La Ilustración Española y Americana 33 (August 30, 1889): 120; “La rondalla de niños aragoneses y el desfile de comparsas provincianas, en el Circo de Invierno” (after a drawing by Luis Jiménez Aranda), La Ilustración Española y Americana 33 (August 30, 1889): 124.

54. The exhibits from Spain are listed in Catálogo de la Sección Española. See also Lasheras Peña, “España en París,” 440–42. 55. On the Jiménez Aranda family, see Pérez Calero, José Jiménez Aranda; García Loranca and Pantorba, Familia de pintores sevillanos; and Fernández Lacomba, José Jiménez Aranda. 56. González López and Martí Ayxelá, Pintores españoles en Roma, 124. See also González López and Martí Ayxelá, Pintores españoles en París, 138–39. 57. See Duvivier, Peintres-graveurs, 39. 58. Silverman, “1889 Exhibition,” 74–77; Adcock, “1889 Paris Exposition,” 33–34; and Levin, When the Eiffel Tower Was New, 20. 59. On Mélida, see “España en la Exposición Universal de París”; Navascués Palacio, “Arturo Mélida y Alinari.” See also “Nuestros grabados,” April 22, 1889, 235, which describes the building as being in the “estilo mudéjar toledano.” 60. Valero de Tornos, Guía ilustrada de la Exposición, 226, quoted in Lasheras Peña, “España en París,” 443–44. 61. Monod, Exposition Universelle de 1889, 3:90. 62. Bueno Fidel, “Arquitectura y nacionalismo.” 63. McSweeney, “Mudéjar and the Alhambresque,” 51–53. 64. “Nuestros grabados,” August 22, 1889, 99. 65. “La sección española, en el Palacio de Industrias Diversas” (after a drawing by Luis Jiménez Aranda), La Ilustración Española y Americana 33 (October 8, 1889): 200. 66. Viera de Miguel, “Imaginario visual español,” 549–50; Iob, “Crónicas de la Exposición,” June 22, 1889, 364–65. 67. Richard, “Exposition d’agriculture,” 143. 68. “L’intérieur du Pavillon Espagnol des Produits Alimentaires” (after a drawing by Luis Jiménez Aranda), L’Exposition de Paris de 1889 42 (October 9, 1889): 21; M., “Pavillon Espagnol des Produits Alimentaires,” 21–23. 69. “Instalaciones y kioscos para la venta de productos españoles, delante del pabellón principal” (after a drawing by Luis Jiménez Aranda), La Ilustración Española y Americana 33 (August 22, 1889): 105. See also M., “Kiosque espagnols de degustation.” 70. Pellicer, Notas y dibujos, 231. See also Sazatornil Ruiz and Lasheras Peña, “París y la ‘españolada,’” 278n49; Mathieu, 1889: La Tour Eiffel, 73.

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71. Reyero, París y la crisis, 255–64. 72. Iob, “Crónicas de la Exposición,” July 30, 1889, 51. 73. Pardo Bazán, Al pie de la Torre Eiffel, 11, 204. 74. Blaugrund, “Behind the Scenes,” 24–25. 75. The jury for admission consisted of Enrique Mélida, Aureliano Beruete, Ulpiano Checa, Francisco Domingo, Manuel Domínguez, José Jiménez Aranda, Antonio Gisbert, Raimundo Madrazo, Martín Rico, and Emilio Sala. See Catálogo de la Sección Española, 10; “Las artes españolas en la Exposición de París,” La Época (Madrid), April 23, 1889, 2. 76. Pardo Bazán, Al pie de la Torre Eiffel, 203–10. See also “España en la Exposición Universal de París,” El Imparcial (Madrid), April 18, 1889, 5, and “Las artes españolas en la Exposición de París,” La Época (Madrid), April 23, 1889, 2. 77. Díez, Pintura de historia del siglo XIX, 359–60. 78. “Nuestros grabados,” May 30, 1889, 315. 79. Pardo Bazán, Al pie de la Torre Eiffel, 212. 80. Ibid., 211. 81. Hamel, “Écoles étrangères de peinture,” 386. See also Picard, Exposition Universelle Internationale, 4:111. 82. Gonse, “Beaux-arts: Les écoles étrangères,” 166. 83. Monod, Exposition Universelle de 1889, 1:607. 84. For the jury roster, see U.S. Dept. of State, Reports of the United States Commissioners, 2:106–7. 85. See also “La visita en la sala de un hospital” (after a drawing by Luis Jiménez Aranda), La Ilustración Española y Americana 33 (October 30, 1889): 252–53. 86. Pardo Bazán, Al pie de la Torre Eiffel, 212–13. 87. Ibid., 293. 88. Reyero, París y la crisis, 264; Hamel, “Écoles étrangères de peinture,” 385; and Picard, Exposition Universelle Internationale, 4:111. 89. Eusebio Blasco, “España en la Exposición Universal de París,” La Época (Madrid), May 8, 1889, 1. 90. Demetrio Araujo, “Pintura española en París,” La Iberia (Madrid), July 4, 1889, 1. 91. Iob, “Crónicas de la Exposición,” July 15, 1889, 22. 92. Eusebio Blasco, “Nuestros pintores en la Exposición,” El Imparcial (Madrid), July 22, 1889, 4. 93. Viera de Miguel, “Imaginario visual español,” 544. 94. Luis Alfonso, “Pintar como querer,” La Época (Madrid), July 24, 1889, 2. See also Luis Alfonso, “Bellas Artes,” La Época (Madrid), August 6, 1889, 1;

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Eugenio Lafuente, “Los pintores españoles,” El Imparcial (Madrid), July 31, 1889, 1–2. 95. Pardo Bazán, Por Francia y por Alemania, 88. 96. Quoted in Labanyi, “Horror, Spectacle, and Nation-­ Formation,” 75. 97. Nelms, Third Republic, 38–39. 98. Delgado, Mendelson, and Vázquez, “Recalcitrant Modernities,” 111.

Chapter 3 1.

The literature on the 1893 Columbian Exposition is immense. For an introduction, see Badger, Great American Fair; Rydell, All the World’s a Fair; Harris, Grand Illusions; and Carr et al., Revisiting the White City. 2. Bancroft, Book of the Fair, 654. 3. Kamen, Imagining Spain, ix–xii. 4. Historian Gary Gerstle attributes the difficulty of incorporating the diversity of the U.S. citizenry into a single national history to competing national ideologies of civic and racial nationalism. See American Crucible, 3–11. 5. Dupuy de Lôme quoted in “Contract Awarded: Construction Work on the Spanish Headquarters to Begin at Once,” Chicago Daily Inter Ocean, February 11, 1893, 6. 6. Dupuy de Lôme, “Spain at the World’s Fair,” 337. 7. Ochsendorf, Guastavino Vaulting, 42–61. 8. Bancroft, Book of the Fair, 907–12. Many of the images in Bancroft’s book are by C. D. Arnold, official photographer of the fair. See Hales, Constructing the Fair, 4, 40. 9. Bancroft, Book of the Fair, 907, 910–11. 10. See Arias Anglés and Rincón García, “Imagen del descubrimiento de América,” 279. 11. Pichardo, Ciudad blanca, 61; Duchess of Veragua, “Spain,” 219. See also Valis, “Women’s Culture in 1893,” 634. 12. Palmer, Addresses and Reports, 72–3. See also Weimann, Fair Women, 135–36; Corn, Women Building History, 201–2. 13. Eastman, Preaching Spanish Nationalism, 2–3. See also Álvarez Junco, “Nation-Building Process,” 90. 14. Puig y Valls, Viaje á América, 1:107–8. 15. Ibid., 1:121–28. On grapes and wine at the world’s fairs, see Hannickel, Empire of Vines, 173–93.

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16. 17. 18. 19.

On Canel, see Vallejo, “Show and Tell.” Canel, “Exposición de Chicago,” 574. Pérez, “Cubans in Nineteenth-Century New York.” Compare Puig y Valls, Viaje á América, 1:105, 109, with Bancroft, Book of the Fair, 372, 289. 20. Brown, Contesting Images, 35. 21. Pichardo, Ciudad blanca, 111. On Pichardo, see Vilella, “‘Exotic’ Abroad”; Vallejo, “Writing the World,” 115–23. 22. Pichardo, Ciudad blanca, 113–14. 23. Barón, “Spanish Presence,” 77–93. See also Handy, World’s Columbian Exposition, 78–84. 24. Ortiz Pradas, “En torno al primer homenaje.” 25. Abrams, “Visions of Columbus”; Groseclose, “American Genesis”; and Marling, “Writing History with Artifacts.” 26. See Vázquez, “Translating 1492”; Bartosik-Vélez, Legacy of Christopher Columbus. 27. Schmidt-Nowara, Conquest of History, 87–88. See also Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, Cuban Art Collection, 56. 28. Vallejo, “Seeing ‘Spain,’” 166. 29. Cabrera, Cartas a Govín, 38. See also Pichardo, Ciudad blanca, 37. 30. Relación de los expositores españoles premiados, 10, 363–71. 31. Handy, World’s Columbian Exposition, 182–83. On Tapiró, see Carbonell, Josep Tapiró. 32. Coffin, “Columbian Exposition VI.” See also Knaufft, “Art at the Columbian Exposition”; Walton, Art and Architecture, 2:75–86; Bancroft, Book of the Fair, 715–17; Van Dyke, “Painting at the Fair,” 439–40; and Johnson, History of the World’s Columbian Exposition, 3:403–4. A number of the Spanish paintings are reproduced in Kurtz, Official Illustrations. 33. Balsa de la Vega, “Crónica de arte.” 34. On Spanish paintings depicting the Catholic Monarchs, see Rincón García, “Reyes Católicos.” 35. Puig y Valls, Viaje á América, 1:47–75. Puig calls the customs process “inquisitorial” on p. 72. 36. Bancroft, Book of the Fair, 215. See also White and Igleheart, World’s Columbian Exposition, 133–34. 37. Çelik, Displaying the Orient, 2. 38. Vanished City, unpaginated. 39. Box 27 (10167540), AGP. 40. See Fuchs, Exotic Nation; Martin-Márquez, Disorientations; and Vázquez, End Again.

41. Schulz, “Moors and the Bullfight,” 195. 42. Puig y Valls, Exposición Universal de Chicago, 13–14. 43. “Nuestro moderno material de guerra”; “Nuestros grabados,” October 22, 1893, 242. 44. Bancroft, Book of the Fair, 715; White and Igleheart, World’s Columbian Exposition, 376–77; and Handy, World’s Columbian Exposition, 62, 178–84. The painting, purchased from Fortuny’s estate sale by A. T. Stewart, was lent by Stewart’s grandniece, Mrs. Prescott Hall Butler, of New York. See Mendoza and Quílez i Corella, “Platja de Portici de Fortuny,” 114– 15; Barón, Fortuny (1838–1874), 50–52. 45. See Sullivan, “Fortuny in America”; Boone, “‘Civil Dissension,’” 52–58. 46. For an introduction to early views of Islam in the United States, see Edwards and Allen, Noble Dreams, Wicked Pleasures; Sha’ban, Islam and Arabs. 47. Nance, Arabian Nights, 12. 48. Putnam, Oriental and Occidental, unpaginated. 49. White and Igleheart, World’s Columbian Exposition, 562. 50. Truman, History of the World’s Fair, 558. 51. Johnson, History of the World’s Columbian Exposition, 3:438. 52. Nance, Arabian Nights, 144. See also Putnam, Oriental and Occidental, unpaginated, which identifies the manager as Milhim Ouardy. 53. White and Igleheart, World’s Columbian Exposition, 590. 54. Bancroft, Book of the Fair, 80. 55. Leja, Looking Askance, 153–83. 56. Wilson, “Infanta at the Fair,” 253. 57. “Coming to the Fair: Infanta Eulalie and Prince Antoine Preparing for the Journey,” Chicago Daily Inter Ocean, February 22, 1893. 58. Studies of people on display at the world’s fairs most often focus upon the exhibition of non-Europeans, but peripheral Europeans were likewise objectified. See Hinsley, “World as Marketplace.” 59. Borbón, Cartas a Isabel II, 112. 60. “Matter of Courtesy: Uncertainty as to the Infanta’s Visit Explained,” Chicago Daily Inter Ocean, May 15, 1893; “Spanish Etiquette,” Chicago Daily Inter Ocean, May 21, 1893. 61. “Formal Calls Made: The Infanta Pays Her Respects to the President,” Chicago Daily Inter Ocean, May 21, 1893.

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62. Shepp and Shepp, Shepp’s World’s Fair Photographed, 529. 63. Ibid., 528. 64. Ives, Dream City, unpaginated. 65. Shepp and Shepp, Shepp’s World’s Fair Photographed, 528. 66. Borbón, Cartas a Isabel II, 122–23; see also Ives, Dream City. 67. White and Igleheart, World’s Columbian Exposition, 472. 68. Coates, “Pan-American Lobbyist,” 24. 69. Curtis, Relics of Columbus, 42–43. 70. Lovell calls such contradictions at the fair “deliberately ironic” in “Picturing ‘A City for a Single Summer,’” 40. 71. Mitchell, “World as Exhibition,” 231. 72. Shepp and Shepp, Shepp’s World’s Fair Photographed, 308. 73. White and Igleheart, World’s Columbian Exposition, 472. 74. See Dudley, “Museum Materialities,” 2–12. 75. Connerton, How Societies Remember, 1–5. 76. Bancroft, Book of the Fair, 96. 77. Ibid., 787–88. 78. See Brandt, “Re-Creating Mount Vernon.” 79. See Kerber, “Florida and the World’s Columbian Exposition.” 80. Bancroft, Book of the Fair, 796–97. 81. Ibid., 819. 82. Ibid. 83. Although the Santa María was able to sail across the Atlantic, the Niña and the Pinta had to be towed. See Smith, “Replicating the Ships of Columbus,” 38–40. 84. See, for example, “La Habana: Entrega a España de las carabelas ‘Pinta’ y ‘Niña,’” La Ilustración Española y Americana 37 (May 15, 1893): 328; “EE.UU. de la América del Norte: La Fiesta Naval de Nueva York,” La Ilustración Española y Americana 37 (May 30, 1893): 358; and “Caravels in Port,” Chicago Daily Inter Ocean, July 8, 1893, 3. 85. Two such posters are in the Graphic Arts Collection, National Museum of American History, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. 86. On the Madrid celebrations, see Valis, “Women’s Culture in 1893,” 636–40; Abad Castillo, IV centena­ rio, 1–94. See also Bernabéu Albert, 1892.

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87. Report of the United States Commission, 10. For Curtis’s report, see, in the same publication, “Report of Wm. E. Curtis, assistant to Commissioner-­General, in charge of the Historical Section, exhibit of the United States at the Columbian Historical Exposition, Madrid, Spain, 1892,” 215–74. 88. Shepp and Shepp, Shepp’s World’s Fair Photographed, 340. See also Anderson, America Not Discovered by Columbus. 89. White and Igleheart, World’s Columbian Exposition, 493. 90. Nora, “Between Memory and History,” 18–19. 91. Smith, “Replicating the Ships of Columbus,” 40.

Chapter 4 1. Orozco, Autobiography, 28. 2. See Moreno Luzón, “Reconquistar América,” 571–72. 3. USCC, International Exhibition, 1876: Official Catalogue, part 1, 261; Catalogue of the Chilian Exhibition, 45–46. 4. USCC, International Exhibition, 1876: Official Catalogue, part 2, 122. 5. Ibid., 123–24. On Mexico at the Philadelphia Centennial, see also Manthorne, “Curating the Nation.” 6. Chile’s pavilion was likewise dismantled and shipped back to Latin America, whereas Mexico’s Aztec Palace was not preserved. The Chilean pavilion stands today in Santiago’s Parque Quinta Normal. 7. Tenorio Trillo, Mexico at the World’s Fairs, 15–178; Fernández Bravo, “Ambivalent Argentina”; and Norambuena Carrasco, “Imagen de América Latina.” See also Fey, “Peddling the Pampas”; Dosio, “Juego de miradas”; and Hernández, “Chile a fines del siglo XIX.” On Argentine painting at the 1893 Columbian and 1904 Saint Louis Expositions, see Malosetti Costa, Primeros modernos, 239–325. 8. Benjamín Vicuña Mackenna, quoted in Norambuena Carrasco, “Imagen de América Latina,” 103. Vicuña Mackenna’s comments were made in 1866 during a stay in the United States. 9. A large number of essays about the Latin American centenaries appear in Moreno Luzón and Gutiérrez Viñuales, Memorias de la independencia; Pérez Vejo, “Centenarios en Hispanoamérica”; and Isaza Londoño, “Centenarios de la independencia.”

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10. Escobar, Fiestas del centenario. 11. See Gutiérrez Viñuales, Pintura argentina, 107–61. 12. Andermann, “Argentine Literature.” 13. Camba and Más y Pi, Españoles en el centenario argentino, 205, 207. 14. Printed pamphlet from the Cámara Oficial Española, December 1909, addressed “a los Industriales y Comerciantes Españoles,” file 3208, AMAE. 15. Gutiérrez, “Pabellón Español en la Exposición.” 16. Cámara Oficial España to the Ministro de Estado, asking for the 493,464 pesos still owed for the 1910 exhibition, September 28, 1917, file 3208, AMAE. 17. “Exposición Internacional de Arte: Lista de los importes totales.” 18. González-Stephan, “Showcases of Consumption,” 225–28. 19. See Rovere and Sandller, “Sociedad Central de Arquitectos.” 20. For an introduction to the generation of ’98, see Baker, “Fin de Siecle Culture.” 21. See García-Rama, “Historia de una emigración artística”; Fernández García, Arte y emigración, 69–89; Fernández García, “Mercado de arte español”; and Amigo, “Arte español en la Argentina,” 23–27. 22. On the Argentine art market in general, see Baldassare, “Buenos Aires.” 23. Gutiérrez Viñuales, “Pintura argentina,” 31–34; Baldassare, “Buenos Aires,” n63. 24. See José Artal to Joaquín Sorolla, April 9, 1909, photocopy, FE Buenos Aires. 25. Zuloaga and Zuloaga, Correspondencia de Ignacio Zuloaga, 270. 26. For a comprehensive discussion of this opposition, see Calvo Serraller, Muller, and Zugaza, Sorolla Zuloaga. 27. “Odian aquí todo lo que huele a flamenquería y gitanería porque los sevillanos lo han infestado todo.” Artal to Sorolla, July 1, 1904, typescript, FE Buenos Aires. 28. Schmidt-Nowara, “Spanish Origins of the American Empire,” 33–34. 29. Anglada’s paintings do appear in the second edition. See Catálogo, Exposición Internacional de Arte, 2nd ed., 95. For shipping details, see the unnumbered folders dated May 21, 1910, and January 28, 1911, file 18–5–6, AGN Buenos Aires.

30. 31. 32. 33.

Gozalbo, “Hermen Anglada y Camarasa,” 65. Daireaux, “Exposición I. de Arte,” 10. Gutiérrez Viñuales, “Hermen Anglada Camarasa.” “Exposición Internacional del Centenario.” On Quirós and the centenary, see Gutiérrez Zaldívar, Quirós, 75–84. 34. Gozalbo, “Cesáreo B. de Quirós,” 8, 10. 35. Ibarra, “Centenario.” See also Alegría and Paz Núñez, “Patrimonio y modernización en Chile”; Armando de Ramón, “Camino al bicentenario.” 36. Rodó, Centenario de Chile, unpaginated. 37. Crispi, Inmigrar en Chile, 18–37. See also Moreno Luzón, “Reconquistar América,” 591. 38. See Bengoa, Historia del pueblo mapuche, 205–364. 39. Berríos, Del taller a las aulas, 413. 40. On Sotomayor, see Zamorano Pérez, Pintor F. Álvarez de Sotomayor; Valle Pérez, Fernando A. de Sotomayor; and Zamorano Pérez et al., Memorias de Fernando Álvarez de Sotomayor. 41. Bindis, Pintura chilena 200 años, 176–205. 42. Mackenna Subercaseaux, Luchas por el arte, 56–58. 43. See Alberto Mackenna, Obras, vol. 8, January 8, 1911, MNBA Santiago. See also Pérez Sánchez, Pintura española en Chile, 15–19. 44. “Exposición en Homenaje al Centenario 1910,” vol. 10, MNBA Santiago. 45. Richon Brunet, “Arte en Chile,” 36. 46. “Generación del trece,” paying tribute to an important exhibition of work by these artists held in 1913, is another name used to describe this group. 47. Cortés Aliaga, “Modernismo en Chile.” 48. Lafaye, “Sociedad de castas,” 29. 49. Tenorio Trillo, I Speak of the City, 8–10. On the Mexican centennial, see Lempérière, “Dos centenarios de la independencia”; Tenorio Trillo, “1910 Mexico City”; Briseño Senosiain, “Fiesta de la luz”; Gonzales, “Imagining Mexico in 1910”; and Garner, “Historia patria.” See also Beezley and Lorey, ¡Viva Mexico! 50. Moreno Luzón and Gutiérrez Viñuales, “Introducción,” in Memorias de la independencia, 12. 51. García, Crónica oficial de las fiestas, 138. 52. Tenorio Trillo, “1910 Mexico City,” 90. 53. García, Crónica oficial de las fiestas, 140. 54. Guzmán Urbiola et al., Parafernalia e independencia, 47. 55. García, Crónica oficial de las fiestas, 140–41.

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56. Lempérière, “Dos centenarios de la independencia,” 325–27. See also Gonzales, “Imagining Mexico in 1910,” 497, 499, 513–14. 57. “Gran exposición de arte español,” El Imparcial (Mexico City), May 21, 1910, 1. 58. Gonzales, “Imagining Mexico in 1910,” 504–8. 59. Seligson, “Exposición japonesa.” 60. See Velázquez Guadarrama, “Exposición Española de Arte,” 7–18. 61. Velázquez Guadarrama prepared a provisional checklist of paintings for the exhibition catalogue 1910 . . . Exposición española—Exposición japonesa, 19–23. 62. “La exposición de arte español,” El Heraldo Mexicano, October 29, 1910, quoted in Moyssén, Crítica de arte en México, 448. 63. Seligson, “Exposición japonesa,” 38. 64. Tenorio Trillo, “1910 Mexico City,” 101. 65. Earle, “‘Padres de la Patria,’” 805. 66. See Pérez Sánchez, Pintura española en el Museo Nacional, 25–31. 67. Reyero, Cultura y nacionalismo, 84–88, 121–22; Vázquez, “Defining Hispanidad.” 68. See Mraz, Looking for Mexico, 42–58. 69. On Polavieja’s selection, see Gonzales, “Imagining Mexico in 1910,” 511; Moreno Luzón, “Reconquistar América,” 565. 70. “El centenario de la independencia mejicana,” El Correo Español (Mexico City), September 1, 1910, 1. 71. Lempérière, “Dos centenarios de la independencia,” 325–27. 72. García, Crónica oficial de las fiestas, 247–52. 73. The painting may be seen in an installation view reproduced in 1910 . . . Exposición de artistas mexicanos, 74. 74. Ramírez, Modernización y modernismo, 237–87; Ramírez, “Hacia la gran Exposición.” 75. Robelo quoted in Ramírez, “Hacia la gran Exposición,” 36. 76. García de Germenos, “Exposición de los artistas me­ xicanos,” 70. 77. “La exposición de arte español: Opinan los maestros y artistas mexicanos,” El Imparcial (Mexico City), May 30, 1910, 1.

Chapter 5 1.

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Leticia Leon, whose grandfather is at left rear, identified the men when she placed the photograph online:

“There is my great-grandpa seated with clear color suit and hat on hand; behind him my grandpa with his right hand resting on his father’s shoulder; standing in the other side is my grandpa’s youngest brother, the man seated with dark suit is a friend. They work there gardening at that time, then came back home in Mexico, to the rancho called Paso Bajo in the municipality of Jesus Maria in the State of Jalisco. Inaugural time for Balboa Park, which purpose was to celebrate the opening of Panama Canal placing an international exposition—with Jose Luis Leon and Lupis Hdez Sevilla.” Many thanks to Mike Kelly, president of the Committee of One Hundred and the person responsible for maintaining the Panama-California Exposition Digital Archive (hereafter PCEDA), for this information. 2. Quoted in Bokovoy, San Diego World’s Fairs, 24–25. 3. For an introduction to the PPIE, see Benedict et al., Anthropology of World’s Fairs; Moore, Empire on Display; Markwyn, Empress San Francisco; Ackley, San Francisco’s Jewel City; and Ganz, Jewel City. For the official history of the PPIE, see Todd, Story of the Exposition. On the San Diego fair, see Bokovoy, San Diego World’s Fairs; Kropp, California Vieja, 103–56; and Amero, Balboa Park and the 1915 Exposition. Amero compiled thousands of articles about the fair, which he kept in indexed binders now housed in the San Diego History Center. 4. Markwyn, Empress San Francisco, 5–8; Glassberg, Sense of History, 61–85. 5. On the history of the Californios, see Haas, Conquests and Historical Identities; Monroy, “Creation and Re-Creation of Californio Society.” 6. “Fun and Fancy Run Gay, Riot at Portola Masquerade Ball,” San Francisco Call, October 22, 1909, 4. See also Schmidt-Nowara, “Broken Image,” 162. 7. “‘Nick’ Covarrubias to Act as Portola: Carnival King to Come from the South,” San Francisco Call, August 19, 1909, 15. 8. “Southerner to Reign as Portola; Nicholas Covarrubias Is to Rule Festival at San Francisco,” Lompoc (Calif.) Journal, September 11, 1909, 8. 9. Glassberg, Sense of History, 68–85. See also Castle, “Eros and Liberty.” 10. “Conchita Sepulveda Is Chosen to Rule as Portola Queen,” San Francisco Call, October 9, 1913, 6;

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11. 12.

13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

22. 23. 24. 25.

26.

27.

“Portola Spirit Thrills Don Gaspar’s City,” San Francisco Call, October 20, 1913, 1. See the Cooper-Molera Papers, Bancroft MSS 78/57 c. Varela-Lago, “Conquerors, Immigrants, Exiles,” 102–4; Cushing, “E. J. Molera”; and Schimmelman, American Photographic Patents, 55. Molera, “Log of the San Carlos.” Juan Riaño, dispatch 55, “Exposiciones y Concursos, SAN,” January 27, 1910, file 3222, AMAE. For a similar argument, see Conde del Valle de Salazar, dispatch 39, May 28, 1912, ibid. Gustave Scholle, May 31, 1912, ibid. Letter to Alejandro Pradilla dated September 16, 1912, ibid. On the Commission of Spanish Tourism, see Miguel Arroyo and Ríos Reviejo, Visite España; Afinoguénova and Martí-Olivella, Spain Is (Still) Different. Emphasis in the original. “Site Selections and Dedications, Spain,” PPIE Records, Bancroft MSS C-A 190, 50.27. “Spanish Commissioner Here,” San Francisco Chronicle, January 8, 1913, clipping in file 3222, AMAE. “Marquis de la Vega Here on Important Art Mission,” New York Times, December 29, 1912, 13. See also “Glory of Spain for Seven Days of Exposition,” San Francisco Call, January 7, 1913, 18; and “Spanish Marquis Here,” San Francisco Call, January 8, 1913, 3. Marquis de la Vega-Inclán to King Alfonso XIII, January 3, 1913, 12367/40, AGP. Thanks to Javier Moreno Luzón for providing this citation. Juan Riaño, dispatch 47, January 24, 1913, file 3222, AMAE. Alfonso Merrydelva, dispatch 258, December 20, 1913, ibid. Moreno Luzón, “Herederos de Balboa.” Frederick T. Dumont to James D. Phelan, December 13, 1913, “Foreign Participation,” PPIE Records, Bancroft MSS C-A 190, 12.14. On the London and Panama fairs, see Miguel Arroyo and Ríos Reviejo, Visite España, 26–29; Moreno Luzón, “Herederos de Balboa,” 173. Walter P. Andrews, Thomas Rees, and Colvin B. Brown to the Marquis de Lema, Minister of State, March 2, 1914, file 3222, AMAE.

28. “Got Spanish Exhibit for Panama Fair,” New York Times, August 7, 1914, 13. See also Salazar to Moore, May 27, 1912, “Spanish Residents of San Francisco,” PPIE Records, Bancroft MSS C-A 190, 17.14. 29. See Trask and Laurvik, Catalogue de Luxe. See also Cheney, Art-Lover’s Guide, 95; Neuhaus, Galleries of the Exposition, 17–49. 30. Brinton, Impressions of the Art, 176. 31. Conde del Valle de Salazar, dispatch 59, December 14, 1915, file 3222, AMAE. 32. Conde del Valle de Salazar, dispatch 2, January 11, 1915, ibid. 33. Perry, Sculpture and Mural Decorations, 30, 32. 34. See Cheney, Art-Lover’s Guide, 56; Mullgardt, Architecture and Landscape Gardening, 74. 35. Cheney, Art-Lover’s Guide, 59. For the portals, see Macomber, Jewel City, 37, 43, 138. 36. James, Palaces and Courts of the Exposition, 41–43. 37. See Perry, Sculpture and Mural Decorations, 84; Mullgardt, Architecture and Landscape Gardening, 46. 38. Macomber, Jewel City, 171. 39. Jules Guérin quoted in Ganz, Jewel City, 13. 40. On the alterations made to photographic postcards, see Woody, “International Postcards,” 17–21. 41. John O’Brian makes this point about photographs of atomic bomb sites in “Postcard to Moscow,” 186. 42. San Diego Panama-California Exposition Souvenir Book, unpaginated. 43. Amero, Balboa Park and the 1915 Exposition, 13. 44. Kropp, California Vieja, 106–12; Bokovoy, San Diego World’s Fairs, 27–35. 45. Schmidt-Nowara, “Spanish Origins of American Empire,” 45. 46. Thornton, “San Diego’s First Cabrillo Celebration.” 47. Kropp, California Vieja, 116. 48. Amero, Balboa Park and the 1915 Exposition, 22. 49. See Komanecky, “Spanish Missions,” 172–74; DeLyser, Ramona Memories, 6–11. 50. On the Black Legend and the California missions, see Rawls, “California Mission as Symbol.” 51. See McWilliams, North from Mexico. See also Fregoso, “‘Fantasy Heritage.’” 52. Jackson, Ramona: A Story, 21. 53. Lears’s linking of antimodernism to Catholicism seems particularly relevant in the context of Spanishness. See Lears, No Place of Grace, especially 183–215.

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54. Jackson, Ramona: A Story, 27, 52. 55. Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, 1–58. 56. Murphy, “San Diego’s Evolutionary Exposition.” 57. McGroarty, “San Diego Pageant,” 23. 58. Kropp, California Vieja, 119. 59. Schmidt-Nowara, “Broken Image,” 165. 60. Amero, Balboa Park and the 1915 Exposition, 25. 61. McGroarty, “San Diego Pageant,” 26. McGroarty’s estimate of one hundred thousand people is undoubtedly an exaggeration. 62. Ibid., 10. 63. On real photo postcards, see Snow, “Correspondence Here.” 64. McGroarty, “San Diego Pageant,” 10. Miguel Ángel Sorroche Cuerva, who studies the missions of Baja California, has found no evidence for McGroarty’s claim. Correspondence with author, March 29 and May 7, 2016. 65. Military High Mass in a Balboa Park Canyon, July 19, 1911, John Earl Collection, rppc_je_gb_00069, PCEDA. 66. McGroarty, “San Diego Pageant,” 13. 67. Pérez Rojas, “Barroco y el arte español.” 68. Doss, “Affect,” 9; see also Doss, “Makes Me Laugh,” 5. 69. Amero, Balboa Park and the 1915 Exposition, 30. 70. Winslow et al., Architecture and the Gardens, 32. 71. Ibid., 34. 72. On the Spanish Colonial Revival, see Mooney, “Sunny Spain”; Van Slack, “Mañana, Mañana”; and Gebhard, “Spanish Colonial Revival.” 73. Mooney, “Sunny Spain,” 367–68. 74. See Smythe, History of San Diego, 169; Black, San Diego County, 1:407–8. 75. DeLyser, Ramona Memories, 101. 76. Kropp, California Vieja, 125. 77. Smith, “California’s County Fair,” 119. 78. Ruiz de Burton, Squatter and the Don, 350. 79. See DeLyser, Ramona Memories, 91; Boone, “Books, Canvases, and the Built Environment,” 45–46. 80. See Mission Bell with Panama-California Exposition on One Side and Panama-Pacific Exposition on the Other (ca. 1915), and Souvenir Bells (ca. 1915), both in the David Marshall Collection, PCEDA, souvenir _dm_025 and souvenir_dm_025c, respectively. 81. Kropp, California Vieja, 67–70. 82. Blue Book, 152.

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83. Amero, Balboa Park and the 1915 Exposition, 78. 84. Biographical information, which identifies the sitter as Loretta Orozco Holbrook White (1898–1987), accompanies the photograph in the SDHC. 85. The verso, which may identify the sitters, reads, “Our address is San Diego Cal. / Mr & Mrs Christ Buckhorst.” 86. Castañeda, “Nineteenth Century Stereotypes.” 87. See Montgomery, Spanish Redemption; Deverell, Whitewashed Adobe. 88. Rodríguez, “Becoming Latinos,” 172–73. 89. Spain’s diversity is also the topic of Feros, Speaking of Spain. 90. Calderón, Narratives of Greater Mexico, 1–7. 91. Weber, “Spanish Legacy in North America,” 20. 92. Sánchez, Becoming Mexican American, 8. See also Bokovoy, San Diego World’s Fairs, 222–26. 93. Kanellos with Martell, Hispanic Periodicals, 3–8. See also Rodriguez, Making Latino News, 1–8. 94. See, from La Crónica (San Francisco), Conde del Valle de Salazar “España: Intimamente considerada,” May 2, 1914, 2–3, and May 30, 1914, 1; [Fernando García], “España y la Exposición Universal de 1915,” July 18, 1914, 1; N. Orestes Guille, “España y la Exposición de San Francisco,” July 25, 1914, 1; N. Orestes Guille, “Sin Confirmación,” August 1, 1914, 1; and Fernando García, “España y la Exposición de 1915,” August 1, 1914, 2. 95. “Exposition Building Accomplishments of Year 1912,” San Diego Union, January 1, 1913, 3, copy in Amero Binder #67, SDHC. See also Black, San Diego County, 1:362–63. 96. Rodriguez, Making Latino News, 3. 97. McGroarty, “San Diego Pageant,” 8. 98. Black, San Diego County, 1:361. 99. “Plants Gathered from All Quarters of Globe,” San Diego Union, January 1, 1913, 2, copy in Amero Binder #67, SDHC. 100. On Stineman, see Redfern and Hill, “Developing San Diego.” 101. Hill, American Menswear, 100. 102. Casanova, Buttoned Up, 4–5. 103. Berger, “Suit and the Photograph,” 34. 104. Bhabha, “Of Mimicry and Man,” in Location of Culture, 121–31.

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bi bli o gr a p h y

Archives Archivo de la Academia de San Fernando, Madrid (AASF) Archivo del Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores, Madrid (AMAE) Archivo del Museo del Prado, Madrid (AMP) Archivo Documental, Biblioteca y Centro de Documentación, Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, Santiago de Chile (MNBA Santiago) Archivo General de la Nación, Buenos Aires (AGN Buenos Aires) Archivo General de Palacio, Madrid (AGP) Arxiu Fotogràfic de Barcelona (AFB) Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley (Bancroft) Fundación Espigas, Buenos Aires (FE Buenos Aires) Panama-California Exposition Digital Archive (PCEDA) Real Biblioteca del Palacio Real, Madrid (RBPR) San Diego History Center (SDHC)

Primary Sources Alfonso, Luis. La exposición del centenar: Noticia del certamen de Filadelfia en 1876. Madrid: Tipografía y Estereotipa Peroj, 1878. Allen, Margaret V. Ramona’s Homeland. Chula Vista, Calif.: Denrich Press, 1914. Anderson, Rasmus B. America Not Discovered by Columbus: A Historical Sketch of the Discovery of America by the Norsemen, in the Tenth Century. Chicago: S. C. Griggs, 1874. Asociación Artístico-Arqueológica Barcelonesa. Album de la Instalación Artístico-Arqueológica de la Real Casa en la Exposición Universal de Barcelona. Barcelona: Jaime Jepús y Roviralta, 1888. Balsa de la Vega, Rafael. “Crónica de arte.” La Ilustración Artística 12 (September 25, 1893): 618.

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i n de x

Page numbers in italics refer to illustrations. ablaq, 72 Abrams, Ann Uhry, 41 absolutism, 79, 85 advertisements, 73, 74, 75 agriculture, 17, 31–32, 75, 77, 125 Agustín I, Emperor. See Iturbide, Agustín de ajimez, 36, 37, 72 Alamar, Gabriel (fictional character), 177, 179 Alcoverro, José, 97 Aldama, Miguel, 39 Alfonso, Luis, 19, 27, 45, 48, 84 Alfonso XII, King of Spain, 21, 29, 30, 35, 49–50, 51 Alfonso XII Visiting the Hospital at Aranjuez (Bermudo Mateos), 81–82 Alfonso XIII, King of Spain, 51, 55, 56, 57, 57, 92, 163 Alhambra, Palace of the, Granada, 101, 102–3, 106, 107 Allen, Margaret, 176, 177, 178, 179 Ramona’s Homeland, 179 Almirall, Valentí, 52 Amero, Richard, 170 Anáhuac (Enciso), 150, 152, 202n73 Anderson, Benedict, 8 Angel of Independence, Mexico City, 142 Angelus, The (Chicharro), plate 15 Anglada Camarasa, Hermenegildo, 132, 201n29 Peasants of Gandía, 132, 133 Another Marguerite! (Sorolla), 98, plate 12 anti-Catholicism, 42 antimodernism, 169, 203n53 Antonio de la Ascensión, Father, 173 Antonio de Orléans, Prince, 109 Araujo, Demetrio, 82–83 architecture Catholic, 72, 73, 92–93 historicism and, 27

hybrid, 54–55, 72, 73, 74, 101 Islamic, 72, 102, 104, 106–7 nationalism and, 54–55 sanitized of Spanishness, 115, 164–65 space in, 27, 118 architecture (styles) Alhambresque, 73–74 Beaux-Arts, 119, 166 Gothic, 31, 59, 64, 71–72 Isabelline Gothic, 72, 92–93 mission, 115, 116, 165 neo-Gothic, 31–32, 90, 145 neo-Mudéjar, 72, 74, 197n59 plateresque, 165 plateresque revival, 72 Spanish Baroque, 173 Spanish Colonial Revival, 175, 179 Argentina art market, 130–31 centennial exhibitions, 124–34 “Conquest of the Desert,” 125 ethnicity and, 125 European immigration to, 123, 126, 131–32, 135 extermination of Indigenous communities, 125 reconciliation with Spain, 124–25, 132, plate 13 See also Exposición Internacional de Arte del Centenario, Buenos Aires “Ariel” (Rodó), 132 art Barcelona school, 64–66 collecting of, 38–39, 45, 106 display of, 15, 16, 39, 62, 62, 81, 96, 97 industry versus, 46, 65 Madrid school, 65–66 markets for, 38–39, 45, 130–31, 147, 148 national, 152, 153 transport of, 45, 125, 132

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art history, 7–8, 64, 66–67 Artal, José, 126–27, 130–31, 132 assimilation, 9 Ateneo Barcelonés, 64 Atl, Dr. (Gerardo Murillo), 150 Atlantic Monthly on Spanish exhibits at the Centennial International Exposition, 30 audiences, 7, 8 Audouard Compañía, 53, 57, 196n12 Avery, Samuel, 39 Bacon, Henry Por Teléfono, 61 Bakhtin, Mikhail Rabelais and His World, 170 Balboa, Vasco Núñez de, 148, 159, 163 Balboa Park, San Diego, 167, 171, 176 Ballu, Albert, 122 Balsa de la Vega, Rafael, 99 Bancroft, Hubert Howe Book of the Fair, The, 90, 101–2, 103, 107, 113, 115, 116 Baptism of Pocahontas (Chapman), 40 Barcelona, Spain competition with Madrid, 65 Barrett, John, 171 Barros Luco, Ramón, 134 Bary, Alexander, 34 Basque Country, 50 Beach at Portici (Fortuny), 106, 199n44 Behaim, Martin, 112 bells souvenir, 179 See also Liberty Bell, Philadelphia bell towers Giralda, Seville, 159, 165 Panama-California Exposition, 155, 156, 179–80, 185 Benedict, Burton, 157 Benedict, Father, 171 Benedito, Manuel, 139, 140, 146, 148 Benito Juárez Hemicycle, Mexico City, 142 Benjamin, Walter, 6 Benlliure, Mariano, 130 Berbers, 104–5, 105 Berger, John, 190–91

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Bermudo Mateos, José Alfonso XII Visiting the Hospital at Aranjuez, 81–82 Bertrán de Quintana, Miguel, 145 Beruete, Aureliano de, 96, 198n75 Bhabha, Homi, 9, 191 Bilbao, Gonzalo, 124, 130, 148, 164 Return from Work, 90, 91 Bindis, Ricardo, 138–39 Black Legend, 11, 42, 164, 168, 170 Blasco, Eusebio, 82, 84 Blasco Ibáñez, Vicente, 140 Bobadilla, Francisco, 98 Bogue, Virgilia, 159 Bokovoy, Matthew, 157, 186, 188 Book of the Fair, The (Bancroft), 90, 101–2, 103, 107, 113, 115, 116 Bosch, Hieronymus Garden of Earthly Delights, 61 Haywain Triptych, 61 Boughton, George Pilgrim’s Sunday Morning, 40 Bourne, Randolph “Trans-National America,” 9 Boyd, Carolyn, 50 Bozzo, Julio. See Moustache (Julio Bozzo) Brandt, Lydia, 115 Brinton, Christian, 164 Brown, Arthur Page, 115, 159 Brown, Dona, 41 Brown, Julie, 95 Brunetti y Gayoso, José, 134 Buckhorst, Christ (husband and wife), 187, 204n85 Buenos Aires, Argentina civic sculptures, 125 Pabellones de España, 125–26, 126, 127 bullfights, 70, 84 Burditt, Thomas H., 165 Burial of San Lorenzo in the Catacombs of Rome, The (Vera) 39 Butler, Mrs. Prescott Hall, 199n44 Cabeza de Vaca, Álvar Núñez, 3 Cabot, Juan, 48 Cabot, Sebastian, 48 Cabrera, Raimundo, 98 Cabrillo, Juan Rodríguez, 168, 173

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Cabrillo Festival, San Diego, 168 Calder, Stirling Nations of the East, The, 165, 167 Nations of the West, The, 165 Calderón, Héctor Narratives of Greater Mexico, 186 Calderwood, Eric, 68 California demographics, 158, 167–68 180 history, 157–58, 170 history, fantasy/romanticized, 110, 168–69, 175, 176, 179, 182, 183–84, 186, 188 Mexicans and mixed-race ethnicities, erasure of, 186 missions, 168, 179, 204n64 residents, Spanish-speaking, 158, 167, 168, 179, 184 Spanishness, erasure of, 158, 161 tourism, 176, 179 Californios, 14, 158, 159, 175, 185, 188 Canalejas, José, 61, 162 Canel, Eva, 95 Cano de la Peña, Eduardo, 70 Christopher Columbus at the Monastery of La Rábida, 39 Cánovas del Castillo, Antonio, 50 Cardinell-Vincent Company, 165–66 Carlos VII (pretender to the Spanish throne), 21, 50 carnivals, 157, 158–59, 168, 169–71 Carrier-Belleuse, Albert, 136 cartes de visite, 194n13 Casa de la Ciutat, Barcelona, 64 casacones, 65, 80 Casado del Alisal, José Flora, 62 Last Moments of Don Fernando IV, “el Emplazado,” 42 Legend of the Monk King, 79, 85, plate 8 Casas, Ramón Portrait of Erik Satie, 98 Castañeda, Antonia, 186 Castelar, Emilio, 78, 79, 80 Castellano, Manuel Death of the Count of Villamediana, The, 39 Catalonia, 50, 52, 55 festivities, 117–18 industriousness of residents, 64 Catholicism, 17, 31, 42, 93–94, 102, 203n53 Çelik, Zeynep, 102

centenaries, 6, 8, 14, 124, 152–53 Argentina, 124–34 Chile, 134–41 Latin America, 123 Mexico, 141–52 See also exhibitions, centennial; fairs and expositions; world’s fairs; and names of specific expositions and fairs Centennial International Exposition, Philadelphia, 2, 12–13, 15–48, 33, 44 Agricultural Hall, 31–34, 31 Art Annex, 38, 38, 44 award ceremony, 45–46 awards, 45 Centennial Commissions (Spain), 18, 19, 21 Centennial Photographic Company, 19 cigar and cigarette displays, 33 Corliss steam engine, 32, 46–47, 47 Corp of Engineers quarters, 36–37, 37 Cuba’s flag displayed at, 46 Horticultural Hall, 36 Latin American exhibitions, 122 Machinery Hall, 34, 46, 47 Main Exhibition Building, 25, 26, 29 mercantile displays, 123 military at, 22–23, 34, 36–37 photographs of, 19 plan of, 33 space allocation at, 19, 22, 25–26, 31–32, 33 Spanish agricultural products display, 31–34 Spanish art at, 15–16, 16, 17, 37–45 Spanish Art Gallery, 15–16, 17 Spanish exhibitions at, 21–22, 28–37, 29, 34, 37–45 Spanish Government Building, 34–35, 35, 36 Spanish industrial products display, 29–30 Spanish participation, reasons for, 18–19, 30 Spanish Pavilion, 20, 24, 25 Spanish opinion of, 45–46 tapestries, 29–30 triumphal arches, 20, 23, 24, 25–28, 25, 30, 31, 31 U.S. art at, 40, 82 U.S. reception of Spanish exhibitions, 15–17, 27–28, 30, 40, 41–45, 48 Ulysses S. Grant’s visit to, 32, 45, 46, 47 weapons display, 35 wine display, 32, 33 Women’s Pavilion, 34

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Centennial Photographic Company, 19 Central Spanish Centenary Commission (Mexico), 144–45 Centre Català, 52, 67 Cercle Artístic, 61 Cerdà, Ildefons, 52 Ceuta, Spain, 105–6 Chapman, John Gadsby Baptism of Pocahontas, 40 Charles V, King of Spain, 163, 174 Charnon-Deutsch, Lou, 4 Charton, Ernest, 122 Checa, Ulpiano, 198n75 Cheney, Sheldon, 165 Chicharro, Eduardo, 139, 140, 146 Angelus, The, plate 15 Garden Party, 146, 147, 148 Child Worker, The (Planella i Rodríguez), 66, 98, 197n40, plate 6 Chile, 124, 134–41 artistic development, 140–41 cultural consequence, perceived lack of, 139–40 economic growth, 135 ethnicity and, 124, 135 European immigration to, 135 French culture, privileging of, 138–39 Indians, prejudices against, 123, 200n8 Indigenous inhabitants, resettlement of, 135 oligarchy versus the working class, 134, 136 relationship with Spain, 135, 136, 140–41 sculptures, reception of, 135–36 social unrest, 136–37 See also Exposición Internacional de Bellas Artes, Santiago Christopher Columbus at the Monastery of La Rábida (Cano de la Peña), 39 chueca, 122 Church of San Juan de los Reyes, Toledo, Spain replica of, 92, 93 Cid, El, 90 científicos, 147 cigars and cigarettes, 33, 95 Círculo de Bellas Artes, Madrid, 96, 99 Ciutadella, Barcelona, 52 Clark, Champ, 181 class, 177, 179

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Clavin, Patricia “Defining Transnationalism,” 9 Coates, Benjamin, 112 Coffin, William, 99 Cohen, D. S. Our Show, 1–2 Cole, Thomas, 4 Coll y Pi, Antonio, 135 Collins, Joseph R., 155, 184 Collivadino, Pío, 130 Colonial Revival, 40–41 colonias Cuban, 95 German, 135 Italian, 135 French, 135 Spanish, 22–23, 125–26, 135, 144, 147, 148 color (art), 66–67, 132 Columbus, Christopher, 2, 28, 41, 91, 97–98, 112–13 celebrations of his voyage, 2, 90–91, 112–13, 117–19 commemorations of, 87–88, 97–98 Duke of Veragua, in role of, 87, 110, 111 García Menocal’s depiction of, 97, 98, plates 10–11 Niña, Pinta and Santa María replicas, 88, 88, 116–19, 120, 200n83 paintings depicting, 15–16, 16, 27, 39, 40, 118, 122, plates 1, 10–11 statue of, Barcelona, 52 Columbus Before the Court of Ferdinand and Isabella (Cordero), 122 Comba García, Juan, 58–59 Queen Regent Visiting Sick Soldiers, 81, 83 commerce, 90, 95 Cuban, 95–96, 97 historic, 87, 90 international, 74 Spain with Argentina, 125–26 Spain with France, 72 United States, 95, 106 communities, expatriate. See colonias Compañía Trasatlántica, 52, 74 Conaty, Thomas James, 171 Concas, Victor María, 118 Connerton, Paul, 8, 113 Consummation Est (J. Jiménez Aranda), 80 Conte, Pedro, 90

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Contreras, Rafael, 36 Conversion of Recarred I (Muñoz Degrain), 79 Conversion of the Duke of Gandía (Moreno Carbonero), 78, 79, 81, 99 Cooper, John Roger, 159 Cooper, Juan Bautista Rogers. See Cooper, John Roger Cooper-Molera family, 159 Copley, John Singleton, 4 Cordero, Juan Columbus Before the Court of Ferdinand and Isabella, 122 Corliss steam engine, 32, 46–47, 47 Correo Español, El (Mexico), 148, 150 Cortázar, Daniel, 23, 35 Cortés Aliaga, Gloria, 141 Cortés, Hernán, 27, 39, 142, 163, 164 Cosmopolitan illustration of Santa María and Illinois in eyeglasses, 119, 120 costumbrismo, 38, 65, 131 Court of the Universe model of, 161, 161 Covarrubias, Nicolás Antonio, 158–59, 160, 176 Creoles (Mexican), 41, 148, 169 Crocker, William H., 161 Crónica, La (San Francisco), 188 Crónica official de las fiestas del primer centenario (García), 142, 144 Cuba, 32, 89 García Menocol’s depiction of Columbus and, 98 sovereignty of, 95–96 U.S. treatment of, 46, 95, 97 war for independence, 21, 32–33, 50 cultural production Chile, 139–41 Mexico, 14, 121, 146, 152 United States, 3–5, 106 Curtis, William Eleroy, 87, 111, 112, 118 Cushing, Caleb, 18 Daily Inter Ocean on Princess Eulalia, 109 dancers, 107, 108, 159, 176–77, 178, plate 17 Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR), 180, 181 David, Jacques-Louis, 66 Davidson, Aubrey, 176, 177, 178 Dean, Carolyn, 9

De Anza, Antonio, 122 Delgado, Elena, 85 DeLyser, Dydia Ramona Memories, 176 Deverell, William, 186 De Young, Michael H., 157 Death of Lucano (Garnelo), 61 Death of Marat (Rebull), 122 Death of the Count of Villamediana, The (Castellano), 39 decapitation, 79, 85 “Defining Transnationalism” (Clavin), 9 De Soto Discovering the Mississippi (Powell), 40 Díaz, Porfirio, 14, 141, 144, 147, 148, 149 Hidalgo’s insurrection and, 150 Díaz de Vivar, Rodrigo. See Cid, El Domènech i Montaner, Lluís, 52, 54–55, 125 Domeyko, Ignacio, 122 Domingo, Francisco, 80, 82, 198n75 Domínguez, Manuel, 78 Donadío, Conde de. See López de Valdemoro, Norberto, Conde de Donadío Doss, Erika, 173 Dr. Atl (Gerardo Murillo). See Atl, Dr. (Gerardo Murillo) Dr. Péan Teaching His Discovery of the Compression of Blood Vessels at St. Louis Hospital (Gervex), 82 drawing, 57, 59, 61, 152 color versus, 66–67 Comba Garcia’s, 59, 60, 61 photography and, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61 Dumont, Frederick T., 163 Dupuy de Lȏme, Enrique, 89, 90, 98, 103 Eakins, Thomas, 4 Gross Clinic, 82 Earle, Rebecca, 148 Eastman, Scott, 93 Eiffel Tower, 70–72, 71 ground plan as metaphor, 71–72 Eixample, Barcelona, 52 El Camino Real Association, 179 Embarkation of Columbus, by Order of Bobadilla (García Menocal), 97, 98, plates 10–11 Embarkation of the Pilgrims (Weir), 40, plate 3 embodied experiences, 113–15, 168, 183 Enciso, Jorge, 152 Anáhuac, 150, 152, 202n73

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Eno, I. L., 173 Ercilla, Alonso de, 135, 136 Ericson, Leif, 119 Errázuriz Urmeneta, Rafael, 140 Escobar, Alfredo, 22–23, 28–29, 32–33, 34, 46, 124 Escorial, 27 Espina, Juan, 96, 99 Esquella de la Torratxa, La (Barcelona), 67 political cartoon of María Cristina, 67, 68, 197n46 Estudillo, José Guadalupe, 176, 177, 178, 188 Estudillo, José María, 176 Estudillo Day, San Diego, 176 Estudillo House, San Diego, 176, 179, 180 ethnicity, 89, 186 Latin America’s alignment with Europe, 124, 125, 130 Eulalia, Infanta of Spain, 13, 87, 108–9, 111, 124 entourage, 109 U.S. reception of, 109–11 events, historic multisensory exhibitions and, 113–14, 116, 118, 119– 20, 170–71, 176 Execution of Torrijos and His Companions on the Beach at Málaga (Gisbert), 79, 80, 82, 85 exhibitions, centennial, 121–23, 124, 134 Argentina, 124–34 Chile, 134–41 Latin America, 123 Mexico, 144–52 See also centenaries; fairs and expositions; world’s fairs; and names of specific expositions and fairs Exposició Universal (1888), Barcelona, 13, 49–69 Arc de Triomf, 52, 53–54 architectural styles, 72, 74, 197n59 art, 61–67 art reviews of, 63–66 artists’ spaces at, 61 Audouard Compañía and, 53, 57, 194n12 awards, 66, 197n39 catalogue, organization of, 61, 62–63 children born on opening day, prize for, 55, 57 French exhibition, 69 inauguration ceremonies, 55, 57, 57, 58, 58 jury selecting Spanish art, 78, 198n75 María Cristina’s presence at, 51, 55, 56, 57, 57, 59, 60, 67, 67, 197n46 maritime displays, 53

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organizational difficulties, 61 Palace of Fine Arts, 52, 57, 57, 61–62, 62 Palace of Industry, 52 photographs of, 53, 194n12 plan of, 52, 53 poster for, 63, 64 processions, 55, 56 Sección Arqueológica, 61 triumphal arches, 52, 53–54, 55, 56 Exposición, La (Barcelona) coverage of Exposició Universal, 55, 56, 57, 57 Exposición Española de Arte e Industrias Decorativas, Mexico City, 144–52 Mexican artists response to, 14, 121, 146, 150 temporary building, 145, 146 Spanish paintings, 146, 148 works on exhibition, provisional list, 146, 202n61 Exposición Histórico-Americano, Madrid, 118 Exposición Histórico-Europea, Madrid, 118 Exposición Internacional de Arte del Centenario, Buenos Aires, 127–34 alignment with world’s fairs, 134 Latin American paintings, 127–28, 132 134 Pabellón Argentino reconstruction, 134 plan of, 129, 130 Sala Zuloaga, 130, 131 Spanish art, 130–32 Spanish debt, 126, 201n16 Spanish organizing committee, 130 Exposición Internacional de Bellas Artes, Santiago, 138–41 alignment with worlds’ fairs, 138 plan of, 138, 139 Spanish paintings, 139–40 Exposición Nacional, Panama, 163 Exposiciones Nacionales de Bellas Artes, Madrid, 38 Exposition de Paris de 1889, L’ (Paris) coverage of the Pavilion of Spanish Food Products, 77 Exposition Universelle (1867), Paris, 27 Spanish pavilion, 73 Exposition Universelle (1889), Paris, 13, 49, 50, 69–86 awards and Medal of Honor award controversy, 80–85 Aztec Palace, 122, 200n6 boycott of, 13, 69, 85 Champ de Mars, 72, 180 Chilean pavilion, 200n6 Esplanade des Invalides, 180

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extra-official participation, 69, 72 Latin American pavilions, 72, 122–23 mercantile displays, 123 Pabellón Argentino, 122, 128, 128 Palace of Diverse Industries, 71, 75, 77 Palace of Fine Arts, 70, 71, 78, 80, 81 Palace of Liberal Arts, 72 Palace of Machinery, 70, 71, 75 Pavilion of Spanish Food Products, 70, 72, 73, 74–75, 75, 76, 77 plan of, 71–72 Spain’s participation, 69–70, 72, 78 Spanish art, 77–86 Spanish art, French reviews of, 80, 82, 84 wine display, 75, 77 fairs and expositions, 2, 3, 6, 7, 8, 69 amusement zones, 106–7, 180, 181 Latin America’s contributions, 6–7 Spain’s contributions to, 7, 12–13, 15–45 See also centenaries; exhibitions, centennial; world’s fairs; and names of specific expositions and fairs fandango, 183, 184 Ferdinand VII, King of Spain, 79 Fernández, Elías, 134 Fernández-Armesto, Felipe, 1 Fernández Bravo, Álvaro, 122 Ferrant, Alejandro, 130 Ferris, Kate, 46 Ferry Building, San Francisco, 159 Figueroa, Emiliano, 134, 135 Figueroa Alcorta, José, 134 First Homage to Christopher Columbus (Garnelo), 97, 98 First Landing of Columbus (Puebla), 15–16, 16, 39, 97–98, plate 1 Fish, Hamilton, 17 Fisherboy (Sorolla), 146, 147 Flora (Casado del Alisal), 62 Folgueras, Cipriano, 125 Fort Marion, St. Augustine, 115 Fortuny, Mariano, 99, 106 Beach at Portici, 106, 199n44 France relationship with Spain, 70, 79, 85 French Revolution, 69, 70, 85

Frontaura, Carlos, 69 fruit, 116, 117 Gallagher, Mrs, 171 Gálvez, Bernardo de, 10 Gándara, Álvaro de la, 19, 51 Gándara, Jerónimo de la, 73 Gandarias, Justo de, 97 García, Genaro Crónica official de las fiestas del primer centenario, 142, 144 García, Telésforo, 147 García Canclini, Néstor, 9 García Menocal, Armando Embarkation of Columbus, by Order of Bobadilla, 97, 98, plates 10–11 García Núñez, Julián, 125 Garden of Earthly Delights (Bosch), 61 Garden Party (Chicharro), 146, 147, 148 gardeners Mexican, 155, 156, 184, 188–91, 190, 191, 202n1 Garnelo, José Death of Lucano, 61 First Homage to Christopher Columbus, 97, 98 Spanish Culture over Time, 148 Gaudí, Antonio, 53, 74 Gazette des Beaux-Arts (Paris) review of Spanish art, 80 generación del centenario, 141, 201n46 generation of ’98, 130 Gerstle, Gary, 198n4 Gervex, Henri Dr. Péan Teaching His Discovery of the Compression of Blood Vessels at St. Louis Hospital, 82 Getz, Thomas P., 180 mission play of, 180, 181 Giberti, Bruno, 46 Giralda bell tower, Seville, 159, 165 Girona, Manuel, 51 Gisbert, Antonio, 83, 198n75 Execution of Torrijos and His Companions on the Beach at Málaga, 79, 80, 82, 85 Landing of the Puritans in America, 12, 15, 17, 39–40, 79, plate 2 Glassberg, David, 159 Gómez Robelo, Ricardo, 152

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Gonse, Lewis, 80, 83 González-Stephan, Beatriz, 6 Goodhue, Bertram, 167, 173 Gordon, Arturo, 141 Goupil, Adolphe, 39 Goya, Francisco de, 66 Tauromaquía, 104 Gozalbo, Augusto, 132, 134 Gran Desfile Histório, 142, 143, 144, 145 Paseo del Pendón, 144 role of race in, 144 Grant, Ulysses S., 32, 45, 46, 47 Great Mosque of Córdoba replica of, 99, 101–3, 101, 103, 107–8 Grito de la Independencia, 142 Gross Clinic (Eakins), 82 Guastavino, Rafael, 90 Guérin, Jules, 165 Gutiérrez, Ramón, 126 Gutiérrez Viñuales, Rodrigo, 124, 142 gypsies, 132 Hamel, Maurice, 80, 82 harems, 107 Harper’s Weekly “Our Artist’s Dream of the Centennial Restaurants,” 43, 44 hats, 189–90 Haywain Triptych (Bosch), 61 Hernández, Ignacio, 122 Herrán, Saturnino, 152 Legend of the Volcanoes, 150 Hidalgo, Miguel, 122, 141, 142, 143, 150, 151 hispanismo, 132 hispanoamericanismo, 121, 163 Historia y celebración (Tenorio Trillo), 5 Hobsbawm, Eric, 8 Homer, Winslow, 4 Hospital de Santa Cruz, Toledo, Spain, 165, 175 Hospital Room During the Visit of the Chief Doctor, A (L. Jiménez Aranda), 81, 82, 85, 99, plate 9 Howells, William Dean “Letters of an Altrurian Traveller,” 119 Huelva, Spain, 118 Huntington, Archer Milton, 161 hybridity, 9, 186

230

Ibarra, Macarena, 134 identity, Argentinian, 128 identity, French, 66, 69, 70, 72 identity, national, 8, 12, 27, 89, 128, 198n4 identity, Spanish, 13, 16–17, 27, 31, 44, 49, 50, 68–69, 85–86, 88–89 as exhibited at the Exposition Universelle (1889), 80–81 Catalan versus Castilian, 67 Catholicism and, 93–94 hybridity of, 90, 186 modernity and, 74, 75, 85 Muslim and, 73–74, 103–4 separatist, 50, 55 territory and, 104, 118 identity, United States, 5–6, 9, 14, 17, 28, 47–48, 89, 180 Anglo-Saxon influence, 1–2, 41, 48 California and, 170, 180, 186 Pennsylvania and, 41 Spanish influence, 1, 2–3, 4–5, 12–13, 15–17, 41–42, 48, 170, 186, 188 state identity and, 114–16 Virginia and, 114–15 Igleheart, William, 107, 119 illusionism, 108 Ilustración Española y Americana, La (Madrid) coverage of Centennial International Exposition, 46 coverage of Exposició Universal (1888), 57, 57, 58, 58, 59, 69, 70, 71, 74, 76, 80, 81 coverage of siege of Melilla, 104–5, 105 immigration Catholics to the U.S., 12, 42 English speakers to California, 158, 167 Europeans to Argentina, 123, 126, 131–32, 135 Europeans to Chile, 135 Europeans to Latin America, 123–24, 135 Europeans to Mexico, 135, 141, 147 Europeans to the U.S., 9 Mexicans to California, 168, 188 Scandinavians to the U.S., 118 Spanish to Argentina, 124, 126, 131–32, 135 Spanish speakers to the U.S., 11, 12 Imparcial, El (Mexico City), 148 on Mexican centennial exhibition, 144–45 Independence Hall, Philadelphia, 46–47, 47 Indigeneity, 115 Native American, 10–11, 168

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Indigenous inhabitants portrayed in paintings, 150 treatment of, 115, 125, 135, 168 industrialization Europe, 125 France, 70, 72, 123 Latin America, 123, 126 Spain, 16–21, 23, 30, 34, 43, 65–66, 75 United States, 17, 18, 45, 123 Ingram, J. S., 43 Insanity of Doña Juana de Castilla, The (Vallés), 39, 42–43, plate 4 interdisciplinarity, 7 ironwork, 28, 30, 75 Isabel de Borbón, Infanta, 124 Isabel II, Queen of Spain, 73, 78 Isabella I, Queen of Spain, 27, 73, 92 Isabella the Catholic Dictating Her Will (Rosales), 99 Iser, Wolfgang, 7 Iturbide, Agustín de, 144, 150 Ives, Halsey, 110–11 Jackson, Helen Hunt Ramona, 168–69, 179 Jacobson, Stephen, 54–55, 67, 68 Jauss, Hans Robert, 7 Jayme, Father, 173 Jefferson, Thomas, 114 Jéquier, Emilio, 138 Jiménez Aranda, José, 96, 198n75 Consummation Est, 80 Jiménez Aranda, Luis, 70–71, 71, 74–75, 77 Hospital Room During the Visit of the Chief Doctor, A, 81, 82, 85, 99, plate 9 Lady at the Paris Exposition, 49, 85, plate 5 Jocs Florals, 67 Johnson, Hiram, 181 Johnston, Patricia, 8 Jones, Caroline, 8 Jones, Owen, 36, 102 Jordana y Morera, José, 19, 31, 32, 51, 69–70 Juana de Castilla, Queen, 43, plate 4 Juárez, Benito, 142, 151 Kamen, Henry, 27, 31, 44 Kammen, Michael, 8

Kanellos, Nicolás, 188 Knoedler, Michael, 39 Know-Nothings. See Order of the Star-Spangled Banner Kropp, Phoebe, 170 laborers Mexican, 155, 156, 184, 188–91, 190, 191, 202n1 labyrinths, 106, 107, 108 Lady at the Paris Exposition (L. Jiménez Aranda), 49, 85, plate 5 Lafuente, Eugenio, 84 Landing of Columbus, The (Vanderlyn), 40 Landing of the Puritans in America (Gisbert), 12, 15, 17, 39–40, 79, plate 2 Last Moments of Don Fernando IV, “el Emplazado” (Casado del Alisal), 42 Latin America, 7, 152–53 dislike of U.S. policies, 132, 134 European immigration to, 123, 126, 135 Hispanic unity and, 134–35, 163 independence of nations, 6, 7, 13–14, 121 press and, 188 relationships with Europe, 7, 124–25, plate 13 visual culture, 7–8 Latin Americanism, 5, 134–35, 163 Lavigne, Emilio, 128 Law, James Duff, 5–6 Lears, T. J. Jackson, 169, 203n53 Le Brun, Charles, 66 Legacy, Washington, D. C., 11 Legend of the Monk King (Casado del Alisal), 79, 85, plate 8 Legend of the Volcanoes (Herrán), 150 Leibsohn, Dana, 9 Leja, Michael, 108 Lempérière, Annick, 144 Leon, Leticia, 202n1 “Letters of an Altrurian Traveller” (Howells), 119 Liberal Triennium, 79 Liberty Bell, Philadelphia, 46–47, 47, 114, 180–82, 182, 183 replica of, in oranges, 116, 117 Liberty Bell Day, San Francisco, 180–81 lieux de mémoire, 119–20 Lira, Pedro, 140 Lliga de Catalunya “Missatge a la Reina Regent,” 67

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Lonja, La (silk exchange), Valencia, 90 replica of, 87, 89–90, 91 looms, 34, 66, plate 6 López de Valdemoro, Norberto, Conde de Donadío, 19, 27–28, 38, 39, 44, 45 López Fabra, Francisco (Francesc), 19, 20, 21, 23, 28, 51, 194n13 Memoria administrativa, 19, 45, 48 López Mezquita, José, 164 López y López, Matías, 69, 78 Louisiana Purchase Exposition, St. Louis, 160, 162 Lovell, Margaretta, 200n70 Lovers of Teruel (Muñoz Degrain), 61, 99 Lummis, Charles F. Spanish Pioneers and the California Missions, 170 Luxenberg, Alisa, 4 machinery, 32, 34, 46–47, 47, 71, 72, 75 Mackenna Subercaseaux, Alberto, 138, 139–40 Madero, Francisco, 162 Madrazo, Raimundo de, 80, 82, 198n75 Madrid, Spain competition with Barcelona, 65 Man Seated with Pistol and Rifle, Woman Standing (postcard), 186, 187, 204n85 Mancini, J. M., 9 María Cristina, Queen Regent of Spain, 51, 55, 56, 57, 57, 59, 60, 67, 78, 83 political cartoon of, 67, 68, 197n46 Marín, Juan J., 19, 23 Marion, Francis, 115 masquerades, 159, 186 Masterpieces of the Centennial International Exhibition (Shinn, Smith and Wilson), 15–16, 23, 39, 42 Maureta, Gabriel Torcuato Tasso Retiring to the Monastery of San Onofre, 42 Maurophilia, 103–4 McCabe, James, 30 McGroarty, John S., 170, 204n61 McSweeney, Anna, 73 McWilliams, Carey, 169 McKinley Tariff, 95 meaning, visual, 7 Medal of Carlos III, 148, 149 medieval revivalism, 64

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“Meet Me in San Diego” (postcard series), 155, 156, 184– 86, 185, 187, 191 Meifrén, Eliseo, 80, 164 Meissonier, Ernest, 80, 84 Mélida, Arturo, 72 Mélida, Enrique, 78, 198n75 Melilla, Spain, 104–6 Memoria administrativa (López Fabra), 19, 45, 48 memory, 8, 113, 119–20 Mendelson, Jordana, 85 Mending the Nets (Sorolla), 146, 147, 148, plate 16 Menéndez de Avilés, Pedro, 3 Mercadé, Benito Passing of Saint Francis of Assisi, 42 mestizaje, 152, 169 Mexican-American War, 12, 158 Mexican Americans, 186, 188 Mexican Revolution, 14, 144, 150, 168 Mexican War of Independence, 144, 158 Mexicans depictions of, 186 Mexico art market, 147, 148 Chilean prejudices against, 123, 200n8 científicos, 147 Creoles, 141, 148, 169 demographics, 123, 141, 152 European immigration to, 135, 141 Hidalgo’s call to arms, 144, 150 history, re-enactments of, 142, 143, 144 independence celebration, 14, 141–44 Japanese decorative exhibition, 145–46, 147 monuments, 142 negativity towards U.S., 147 parades, 142, 143, 144 positivist view of history, 142 press and broadsheets, 148, 149, 150, 151 pro-Hispanism, 147–48 relationship with Spain, 144, 147–48, 149, 150, 151 Spanish art exhibition, 144–48, 152 See also Exposición Española de Arte e Industrias Decorativas, Mexico City Midwinter Exposition, San Francisco, 157 mimicry, 191 Mina, Francisco Xavier, 122 “Missatge a la Reina Regent” (Lliga de Catalunya), 67

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Mission Indians, 168 Misztal, Barbara, 8 Mitchell, Donald, 43 Mitchell, Timothy, 113 modernisme, 64, 118, 126, 134 modernity, 70, 72, 74, 85 Molera, Amelia Cooper, 159 Molera, Eusebio J., 159–60, 161, 163 monarchy U.S. reaction to, 110–11 Monastery of La Rábida, Huelva, Spain replica of, 87, 111–13, 112, 114, 200n70 Monastery of Montserrat, Barcelona, Spain, 59, 60 Monod, Emile, 80 Montezuma, 142, 144 Montgomery, Charles, 186 Montt, Pedro, 134 Monvoisin, Raymond, 140 Moore, Charles C., 160, 161 Moore, Sarah, 157 Moorish Bridegroom, A (Tapiró), 100, 105 Moradiellos, Enrique, 21 Morelos, José de his uniform, 148, 149 Moreno, Señora (fictional character), 169 Moreno Carbonero, José Conversion of the Duke of Gandía, 78, 79, 81, 99 Moreno Luzón, Javier, 121, 142, 162–63 Moroccans, 99, 100, 105 Morphy, Juan, 46 Mount Vernon, Virginia replica of, 114–15 Moustache (Julio Bozzo) cartoon by, 135–36, 137 Muñoz Degrain, Antonio, 130 Conversion of Recarred I, 79 Lovers of Teruel, 61, 99 Prayer, The, 42 Queen Isabella Offering Her Jewels, 113 muqarnas, 103 Murillo, Gerardo. See Atl, Dr. (Gerardo Murillo) musk, 169 Nance, Susan, 106 Narratives of Greater Mexico (Calderón), 186 National School of Fine Arts, Mexico City, 148, 150, 152

nationalism Andalusian, 68–69 Basque, 50 Catalan, 21, 22–23, 50, 52, 66, 67, 68 Cuban, 98 peripheral, 68–69 regional, 68–69, 118, 131–32 Spanish, 98 United States, 198n4 nationhood, 6, 7, 8 Nations of the East, The (Calder), 165, 167 Nations of the West, The (Calder), 165 Native Americans, 10–11, 115, 168 nativism, 42 naturalism, 82, 83 Navarro y Rodrigo, Carlos, 18, 19 New Orleans, Louisiana, 156–57 New-York Historical Society, New York Nueva York (1613–1945), 11 New York Times on Spanish exhibits, 27–28, 30, 40, 43 Niagara Falls, 46 Niehaus, Charles, 164 Nora, Pierre, 8, 119 Norambueno Carrasco, Carmen, 122 noucentisme, 132 Nuestra Señora de Merced celebration of, in Barcelona, 118 Nueva York (1613–1945), New York, 11 O’Brian, John, 203n41 O’Higgins, Bernardo, 136, 137 October 12, 1492 (Ruiz Luna), 90, 92, 97, 98 Olvera, Agustín, 185 Order of the Star-Spangled Banner, 42 Orientalism, 25, 30, 36, 99, 106 ornamentation, 36 Orovio, Manuel de, 19, 21 Orozco, Daniel, 184 Orozco, José Clemente, 14, 121, 146 Orozco, Loretta, 184, 185, 188, 204n84 Ortiz de Villajos, Agustín, 73 Ouardy, Milhim, 199n52 Our America, Washington, D. C., 11 “Our Artist’s Dream of the Centennial Restaurants” (Harper’s Weekly), 43, 44

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Our Show (Cohen and Sommer), 1–2 Pabellones de España, Buenos Aires, 125–26, 126, 127, 134 paintings color and, 132, 134 debate on line versus color, 66–67 genre, 38–39, 65, 66, 82, 84–85 French versus Spanish 66–67, 82, 83 history, 12, 15, 16, 17, 38, 61–62, 62, 65–66, 79, 80, 99, plates 1–4, 7–8, 10–11 landscape, 66 Mexican, 152 modern, 84–85 nationalism and, 132 naturalist, 82, 83 Orientalist, 99, 106 Parisian influence on Catalan, 65, 66–67 plein air, 65, 66 realist, 65, 66, 67, 85, 98–99 religious, 42 Spanish, 4, 12, 14, 15–16, 16, 17, 38–40, 42–45, 64–67 Palacio de Bellas Artes, Santiago, 138, 138 Palmaroli, Vicente, 38 Palmer, Bertha, 92 Palomino, Ricardo Alfredo, 18, 19 Panama-California Exposition, San Diego, 2, 14, 157, 167–76, plate 19 Alhambra Cafeteria, 180 bells and bell towers, 155, 156, 179–82, 185 Cabrillo Bridge, 155, 156, 173, 185 California Building, 173, 174, 174, 179 Catholic Mass at, 171–72, 172 construction and landscaping, 189, 190, 191 dancing at, 176, 183, 184 elected officials’ participation, 171 Ferris Wheel, 180, 181, 185 Food Products Building, 179 Foreign and Domestic Arts Building, 185, plate 20 Getz’s mission-style theater, 180, 181 groundbreaking festival, 168, 170–72, 204n61 horticulture, 189 Indian Arts Building (Arts and Crafts Building), 179, 180 Isthmus, 180, 181 laborers’ housing, 188–89

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Liberty Bell at, 181–82, 183 Mexican laborers and, 156, 156, 184, 202n1 Plaza de Panama, 173, 183, 183, 184 postcards of, 167, 171–72, 172, 173, 175, 180, 181, plate 19 Prado promenade, 175 Sacramento Valley Building, 182, 182, 183, 183 Science and Education Building, 182, 182 Spain’s participation, 182–83 Spanish Colonial Revival architecture, 173, 175, 179 Spanish Troupe, 176–77 Varied Industries Building, 179 Panama Canal, 14, 156, 162 Panama-Pacific International Exposition, San Francisco, 2, 14, 157, 160–66, plate 18 architectural styles, 164, 165 California Building, 165 Cardinell-Vincent Company, 165–66 Court of Flowers, 165 Court of Palms, 165 Court of the Universe, 161, 161, 165, 167, plate 18 doorways, 165 European participation, 160, 163 Liberty Bell at, 180–81, 181 Palace of Varied Industries, 164–65 Pennsylvania Building, 181 plan of, 165 postcards of, 165–66, 167, plate 18 sculptures, 164, 165 Spain’s participation, 160–64, 182–83 Spanish art, 164 Tower of Jewels, 164, 165 Pan-Americanism, 5, 132, 163 Parc de la Ciutadella, Barcelona, 51, 52–53 Pardo Bazán, Emilia, 77–79, 80, 82, 84, 85 Passing of Saint Francis of Assisi (Mercadé), 42 Pavía y Bermingham, Joaquín, 99 Payne, Stanley, 12 PCE. See Panama-California Exposition, San Diego peaceful turn. See turno pacífico Peasants of Gandía (Anglada Camarasa), 132, 133 Pedro II, Emperor of Brazil, 45 Pellicer, José Luis (Josep Lluís), 63–64, 77 his poster for the Exposició Universal, 63, 64 review of paintings, 64–65 Peñafiel, Antonio, 122 Penn, William, 41

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Pérez Caballero, Juan, 124 Perraud, Jean-Joseph, 137 Perry, Stella, 164 Pew Research Center, 11 Phelps, Ralph, 159 Philadelpho, Juliano (pseud.), 32 Philip II, King of Spain, 173 Philip V, King of Spain, 52, 64 Phillips, Ruth, 9–10 photography, 57, 59, 61 Audouard Compañía, 53, 57, 194n12 at the Centennial International Exposition, 19 at the Exposició Universal, 53, 194n12 at the Gran Desfile Histórico, 142, 143, 144, 145 at the Panama-California Exposition, 189–91, 190, 191 at the Panama-Pacific International Exposition, 165–66 at the World’s Columbian Exposition, 95–96, 103, 107–8, 108 backdrops and costumes, 184 Cardinell-Vincent Company, 165–66 Centennial Photographic Company, 19 drawings and, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61 inclusion of people in, 113, 166, 167, 175 manipulation of, to Orientalize Spain, 103, 107–8, 108 manipulation of Estudillo commemoration, 176, 177, 178 Mexicans at the Panama-California Exposition, 155, 156, 184, 191 phylloxera, 75, 77, 95 Picard, Alfred, 82 Piccirilli Brothers, 173 Pichardo, Manuel, 95–96, 98 Pico, Pío, 158 Picq, Henri, 122 Pilgrims, 40, plate 3 Pilgrim’s Sunday Morning (Boughton), 40 Pius IX, Pope Syllabus of Errors, 42 Pizarro, Francisco, 27, 142, 164 Planella i Rodríguez, Joan Child Worker, The, 66, 98, 197n40, plate 6 Plaza, Nicanor, 122 Polavieja, Marquis de, 148, 149 Polo de Bernabé, José, 18

Ponce de Léon, Juan, 2–3, 27, 28, 48 population California, 158, 167–68, 180 Chile, 123, 134, 135 Spanish-speaking in the U.S., 11, 157, 158, 159, 175, 188 Mexico, 123, 141, 152 Muslims in Spain, 90 Por Teléfono (Bacon), 61 Porfiriato, 148 Portales, Diego, 137 Portolá, Gaspar de, 157–58, 168, 173 Portola Festival, San Francisco, 157, 158–59, 176, plate 17 Portrait of Erik Satie (Casas), 98 Posada, José Guadalupe his broadsheet, 148, 150, 151 postcards celebrating Argentina and Spain, 124–25, plate 13 “Meet Me in San Diego” series, 156, 184–87, 185, 187, 204nn84–85 Panama-California Exposition, 171–72, 172, 175, 180, 181, 186, 187, 204nn84–85 Panama-Pacific International Exposition, 165–66, 167 post-impressionism, 132 Powell, William Henry De Soto Discovering the Mississippi, 40 PPIE. See Panama-Pacific International Exposition, San Francisco Pradilla, Francisco, 38, 79–80 Rendition of Granada, 79 Pratt, Mary Louise, 9 Prayer, The (Muñoz Degrain), 42 prejudices, 123, 177, 179, 200n8 press Catalan, 22, 23, 67 reaction to Princess Eulalia’s U.S. visit, 109–11 Spanish, 104 Spanish-language in the U.S., 188 Prim, Joan, 52 Princess Eulalia Day, Chicago, 110 Protestantism, 17 Puebla, Dióscoro First Landing of Columbus, 15–16, 16, 39, 97–98, plate 1 Puerta de Alcalá, Madrid, 27 Puerto Rico, 95

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Puig y Valls, Rafael, 70, 94–95, 99–100, 103, 104 Puritans, 12, 15, 17, 39–40, 79, plate 2 Queen Isabella Offering Her Jewels (Muñoz Degrain), 113 Queen Regent Visiting Sick Soldiers (Comba García), 81, 83 Querol, Agustín, 125 Quirós, Cesáreo Bernaldo de, 132 Rabelais and His World (Bakhtin), 170 Ramírez, Fausto, 152 Ramírez, Joaquín, 122 Ramiro II, King of Aragon, 79, 85 Ramona (fictional character), 168 site of wedding, 176, 179 Ramona (Jackson), 168–69, 179 Ramona Memories (DeLyser), 176 Ramona’s Homeland (Allen), 179 Ramona’s Marriage Place, San Diego. See Estudillo House, San Diego ranchos, 158, 169 Rebull, Santiago Death of Marat, 122 Recabarren, Luis Emilio, 134 Renaixença, La, 63–64 Renan, Ernest, 6, 8 Rendition of Granada (Pradilla), 79 Return from the Harvest (Zuloaga), 130, plate 14 Return from Work (Bilbao), 90, 91 Reyero, Carlos, 82 Riaño y Gayangos, Juan, 160, 161 Ribera i Cirera, Romà, 66 Richon Brunet, Ricardo, 140–41 Rico, Martín, 38, 80, 82, 198n75 Ripamonte, Carlos, 130 Rius i Taulet, Francesc, 51–52 Roberts, Helene, 168 Roca y Galés, José, 34 Rodó, José Enrique, 134 “Ariel,” 132 Rodrigues, Jan. see Rodríguez, Juan Rodríguez, Joseph, 186 Rodríguez, Juan, 11 Rolph, James, 181 Rosales, Eduardo Isabella the Catholic Dictating Her Will, 99

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Rose, Gillian Visual Methodologies, 7 royalty press reaction to, 110–11 transatlantic travel by, 108–9 Ruis, Nina, 184–85 Ruiz de Burton, María Amparo Squatter and the Don, The, 177, 179 Ruiz Luna, Justo October 12, 1492, 90, 92, 97, 98 Rumsey, Charles Cary, 164 Sagasta, Práxedes Mateo, 50, 52, 58, 69, 78 Sala, Emilio, 82, 198n75 Sala Parés, Barcelona, 65 Salamanca, José María de, 39, 40 Salazar y Cólogan, Esteban, 161–62, 164, 165 Saló de Cent, Barcelona, 64 saltpeter, 135 Salvierderra, Father (fictional character), 169 San Diego, California, 155–56, 166, 167–68, 179, plate 19 Estudillo House, 176, 179, 180 festivals, 168, 170–72 history of, displayed progressively, 170 missions, 179, 204n64 parades, 170–71, 204n61 San Diego Union photograph of Estudillo, Davidson, and Allen, 176, 178 San Fernando Academy of Fine Arts, Madrid, 148 San Francisco Call on Covarrubias as Portolá, 158–59 San Francisco Chronicle on erasure of Spanishness from California, 161 San Francisco World’s Fair. See Panama-Pacific International Exposition, San Francisco San Gregorio de Valladolid, Spain, 92–93 replica of, 94, 96, 97 Sánchez, George J., 186, 188 Sans Cabot, Francisco, 39 Santa María la Blanca, Toledo, Spain, 74 Santiago, Chile, 134 civic sculptures, 135 pavilion from the Exposition Universelle (1889), 200n6 Sarmiento, Domingo Faustino, 125 Schmidt-Nowara, Christopher, 168, 170

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Schulz, Andrew, 104 Schwarzmann, Hermann J., 18 sebka, 72 Seine River, 73, 74, 75 Sepúlveda, Conchita, 159, 176, 188 Sepúlveda, Ignacio, 159 Serra, Junípero, 10–11, 115, 158, 165, 171, 173 Serrano de Casanova, Eugenio, 51 Shepp’s World’s Fair Photographed (J. Shepp and D. Shepp) on Duke of Veragua’s visit, 111 on Princess Eulalia visit to U.S., 110 Shinn, Earl Masterpieces of the Centennial International Exhibition, 15–16, 23, 39, 42 Sierra, Justo, 145 Silverman, Debora, 71 Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D. C. Legacy, 11 Our America, 11 Sociedad Rural Argentina, 125 Sommer, H. B. Our Show, 1–2 Sorolla, Joaquín, 96–97, 131, 132, 139–40, 146, 164 Another Marguerite!, 98, plate 12 Fisherboy, 146, 147 Mending the Nets, 146, 147, 148, plate 16 White Slave Trade, 146 Soto, Hernando de, 27, 48 Sotomayor, Fernando Álvarez de, 138–39, 140 Spain, 17, 19, 88–89 claim to California, 157–58 colonies, loss of, 130, 160, 163 Cuba, possession of, 89, 96 decline, 16–17, 44 economic conditions, 126–27 fairs and expositions, presence at, 2, 12, 87, 160–64 history, 19, 21, 27, 44, 49–50, 52, 73, 79, 80 history, Muslim, 73, 88, 99, 104 imagined and fantasized, 106, 107, 110, 169, 175, 176, 179, 183–84, 186, 188 military, 22–23, 34, 36–37, 57, 59, 60 monarchy, 51, 55, 70, 79 national presentation, 13, 17, 18–19, 22–23, 27, 61, 77 negativity toward, 10–11, 15–17, 22, 42, 43, 108, 110–11

North Africa, colonial expansion in, 88, 99, 104–5 relationship with France, 70, 79, 85 relationship with Latin America, 152–53 relationship with U.S., 161–61 Restoration, 49–50, 68, 70 stereotypes of, 70, 77, 80, 84 tariff system, 52 U.S. preconceptions of, 16–17, 42, 43, 44, 106–7 unification of, 54–55, 79 war against Cuba, 21, 43, 50 Spanish-American War, 126 Spanish Chamber of Commerce, Buenos Aires, 126, 201n16 Spanish Culture over Time (Garnelo), 148 “Spanish Element in Our Nationality, The” (Whitman), 1 Spanish Inquisition, 42 Spanish-Moroccan War, 35, 106 Spanish Pioneers and the California Missions (Lummis), 170 Spanish Women and English Woman on a Balcony (Zuloaga), 130 Spanishness architecture and, 115, 158 Chicano activists and, 186 class and, 177, 179 erasure of, 89, 161, 164–65 imagined and fantasized, 106, 107, 110, 169, 175, 176, 179, 183–84, 186, 188 meaning of, 186, 188 Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, 9 Spreckels, John D., 176 Squatter and the Don, The (Ruiz de Burton), 177, 179 St. Augustine, Florida, 41, 115 Stackpole, Ralph, 165 Stayton, Morley, 168 Stewart, A. T., 199n44 Stillé, Charles, 48 Stineman, Ralph, 189 Strahan, Edward. See Shinn, Earl subjectivity, 9 sugar, 32, 33 suits, 190 Suñol, Jerónimo, 97 Sunset Magazine photograph of dancing at the Panama-California Exposition, 183–84, 183 Syllabus of Errors (Pius IX), 42

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Tapiró, José, 99 Moorish Bridegroom, A, 100, 105 Tauromaquía (Goya), 104 Taylor, Edward Robeson, 159, 160 technology, 46, 61 Tejada, Jesús, 197n46 telephones, 61 Ten Years’ War, 21, 43, 50 Tenorio Trillo, Mauricio, 5, 122, 142, 147 Historia y celebración, 5 Thacher, John Boyd, 113 Third Carlist War, 21, 43, 50 tobacco, 95 Torre, Félix de la, 90 Torre, Francisco de la, 152 Torrijos, José María, 79, plate 7 Toruato Tasso Retiring to the Monastery of San Onofre (Maureta), 42 tourist boats, 73, 74, 75 Toyo Kisen Kaisha, 145–46 transculturation, 9 “Trans-National America” (Bourne), 9 transnational studies, 9–10 Trenc Ballester, Eliseu, 65 Truman, Benjamin, 106 Fortuny’s painting and, 107, 108 tunas (musical groups), 176–77 turno pacífico, 50, 92 United States, 17 Capitol, 40 diversity and, 180, 188, 198n4 history, 27–28, 40–41, 48, 85, 182 involvement in Mexican affairs, 162 Pan-American policy, 5, 132, 163 military strength, 119 negativity toward Spanish contributions, 10–11, 12, 16–17, 41–43, 108, 115, 164 marginalization of Spain, 113–14, 115, 119–20, 155, 161, 164–65 neglect of Latinx population, 11 residents, Spanish-speaking, 11, 157, 158, 159, 175, 184, 188 technology and, 46, 61 Urgellés de Tovar, Agustín, 34 Usonia, 5–6

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Valcarce, Teresa, 10 Valencia, Spain, 90 Vallejo, Catherine, 98 Vallejo, Encarnación, 159 Vallejo, Mariano, 159 Vallés, Lorenzo Insanity of Doña Juana de Castilla, The, 39, 42–43, plate 4 Vancouver, George, 173 Vanderlyn, John Landing of Columbus, The, 40 Vanished City, The, 102, 107 Vázquez, Oscar, 4, 38, 85 Vázquez de Ayllón, Lucas, 3 Vega-Inclán, Marquis de la, 161, 162 Velasco, José María, 122 Velásquez, Roxana, 12 Velázquez, Diego, 66 Velázquez Guadarrama, Angélica, 202n61 Vera, Alejo Burial of San Lorenzo in the Catacombs of Rome, The, 39 Veragua, Duke of, 87, 110, 111 Vicuña Mackenna, Benjamín, 123, 200n8 Vienna World’s Fair (1873), 46 Viera de Miguel, Manuel, 70 Vilaseca, Josep, 53–54 Villalobar, Marquis de, 158 Villegas, José, 38, 130, 148 Villodas, Ricardo, 80 Virginius Affair, 32–33 Viscaino, Sebastián, 173 Visual Methodologies (Rose), 7 Wallace, Mike, 11–12 War of the Pacific, 124, 135 Waterman, Hazel Wood, 176 waxworks, 106, 107 Weir, Robert Embarkation of the Pilgrims, 40, plate 3 White Slave Trade (Sorolla), 146, 147 White, Loretta Orozco Holbrook. See Orozco, Loretta White, Trumbull, 107, 119 Whitman, Walt “Spanish Element in Our Nationality, The,” 1 Wile, Aaron, 66 Windrim, James, 31

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wine, 32, 33, 75, 76, 95, 103 Winslow, Carleton, 173 Witches of San Millán, The (Zuloaga), 130 Wolff, Janet, 7 women depiction of, 186 World’s Columbian Exposition, Chicago, 2, 13, 119–20 agricultural display, 95–96, 97 Agricultural Building, 87, 92–94, 97 awards, 98, 99 California Building, 115–16, 116 Cuba and, 89, 95–96 entertainments, 106–7, 180 Fort Marion replica, 115 Fountain of Youth, 107 Great Mosque of Córdoba replica, 99–103, 101, 103, 107–8 Horticultural Hall, 103, 104 Illinois battleship replica, 119 inauguration ceremonies, 87, 111 La Longa silk exchange replica, 87, 89–90, 91 Loan Collection of Foreign Masterpieces, 106 Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building, 87, 99 Midway, 180 Monastery of La Rábida replica, 87, 111–13, 112, 114, 200n70 Moorish palace, 106–7, 108, 199n52 Niña, Pinta and Santa María replicas, 88, 88, 116–19, 120, 200n83 Palace of Fine Arts, 87, 96 space allocation at, 101 Spanish art, 90, 91, 92, 96–99

Spanish Government Building, 13, 87, 89–90, 91, 92, 97 Spain’s participation, 87, 89–90 state pavilions, 87–88, 114–16 Texas Pavilion, 115 U.S. exhibitions relating to Spain, 87–88, 106 Viking ship replica, 119 wine display, 95, 103 Women’s Building, 87, 92, 93 world’s fairs, 2, 3, 6, 7, 8, 69, 156–57 architectural representations of cultures, 27, 102, 106–7, 111–13 boycotts of, 13, 21 displays of people, 110, 199n58 amusement zones, 106–7 Latin American responses to Spanish contributions, 13–14 Latin America’s contributions, 6–7 space allocation at, 19, 22, 25–26, 26, 27, 31–32, 61, 101 Spain’s contributions, 7, 12–13, 21 Wright, Frank Lloyd, 5 Yxart, Josep, 63, 65–66 Zig-Zag (Santiago) cartoon in, 135–36, 137 Zuloaga, Ignacio, 130, 131, 146, 164 Return from the Harvest, 130, plate 14 Spanish Women and English Woman on a Balcony, 130 Witches of San Millán, The, 130 Zuloaga, Plácido, 28, 30, 75, 130

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