Preface and Acknowledgments

Kagan, Richard L.

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Preface and Acknowledgments

Richard L. Kagan

Urban Images of the Hispanic World: 1493–1793

~In a funny sort of way, this book began on the Pulaski Skyway, an elevated highway built in northern New Jersey during the 1930s. Named after a Polish officer who fought in the American War of Independence, the Skyway is like a giant erector-set, a marvel of steel girders and huge rounded bolts. Soaring high above the malodorous marshes dotted with chemical...

Author

Richard L. Kagan

PublisherYale University Press

Stable URL: https://aaeportal.com/?id=-21931

Preface and Acknowledgments

In a funny sort of way, this book began on the Pulaski Skyway, an elevated highway built in northern New Jersey during the 1930s. Named after a Polish officer who fought in the American War of Independence, the Skyway is like a giant erector-set, a marvel of steel girders and huge rounded bolts. Soaring high above the malodorous marshes dotted with chemical factories and junkyards that flank the Passaic and Hackensack Rivers, the Skyway ‘s four lanes still carry motor vehicles along a heavily-trafficked stretch of US Highway 1 that leads from Newark to the approach of the Holland Tunnel, underground gateway to the island of Manhattan, in the city of New York.

Nowadays travelers to Manhattan tend to avoid the Skyway, preferring instead the speed and relative safety of the New Jersey Turnpike, but in the late 1940s, when I was a boy living in suburban New Jersey, my father, driving a Buick, always took the Skyway as the New Jersey Turnpike did not yet exist. I still remember that highway with some trepidation. It was always busy, crowded with huge and noisy trucks. It was also narrow, with nowhere to pull off should the Buick break down, as it occasionally did. And it was high, so high, that I was afraid to look down. I did look out, however, at a vista that offered what I remember as my first city view: a profile of the towering spires of the Manhattan skyline.

Over the years — and countless trips along the Skyway, and later along the Turnpike — I saw that same view dozens of times. From my perspective, that view, together with the profile view of mid-town Manhattan that one sees briefly upon entering or leaving the Lincoln Tunnel, was New York City. As I grew older, my view of Manhattan gradually changed. The transformation began as a teenager when I worked as a helper on a delivery truck that made frequent stops in various parts of lower Manhattan, an unforgettable experience that introduced me to new parts of the “city.” Other changes occurred when, as an undergraduate student at Columbia University, I actually had the opportunity to live in Manhattan, to walk its streets, to explore its neighborhoods, and also to learn about its history and traditions. In addition, an introductory course in geology taught me something about the island’s peculiar physical features, while a memorable survey in the history of architecture enabled me to begin to appreciate, as in Woody Allen’s Manhattan, the seemingly endless myriad of architectural details that literally help to define New York City and give it character and a specificity uniquely its own. In other words, instead of just seeing Manhattan as a cluster of buildings glimpsed from afar, I was beginning to know it.

That process of discovery came to an end when my graduate studies and subsequent professorial career took me to other countries and cities which, over time, I have come to know and experience in similar, if perhaps less intense, ways. Yet my initial attachment to Manhattan remains, so much so that, whenever I return there, I still feel like an insider, a person steeped in its peculiarities as well as one who, almost instinctively, knows his way around. On these visits, moreover, Manhattan becomes a kind of personal “memory palace,” home to a variety of recollections and thoughts, any number of which can be released by the glimpse of a particular building or a stroll down certain parts of Broadway.

The difference between seeing a city and knowing a city is, of course, something that tourists the world over intuitively understand as they wrestle with street maps and guides and ask locals for directions. It might, therefore, appear simplistic to make this difference into the subject of a book. Some years ago, however, when I first became seriously interested in city views, it struck me that by examining different kinds of views it might be possible to understand this issue historically. The subject, moreover, seemed related to one of the key problems that scholars interested in city views customarily had to confront, namely, the difference between “moralized” or symbolic views of cities and those that purported to be cartographically accurate or precise. Further reflection suggested that the different ways in which I had both seen and experienced Manhattan could become a book comparing what will be defined here as “chorographic” views — seeing a city — and “communicentric” views, that is, knowing it.

That this book focuses on urban images of Spain and Spanish America in the period before 1800 and not Manhattan reflects my long-standing engagement with the history and culture of the Hispanic world. In terms of city views, many other cities, New York among them, are far better documented than those of Spain and its former American colonies and thus probably better suited to the kind of thematic inquiry this study will attempt. On the other hand, the cities of the Hispanic world, particularly those in areas with indigenous urban traditions, offer a number of unusual challenges, not the least of which is comparing the representation of cities in pre-Columbian times with those of the colonial era. Equally fascinating is the contrast between the views of these cities done by traveling European artists as opposed to those painted or drawn by artists permanently residing in the cities they represented. The contrast between these two classes of urban images is partly attributable to differences in style and artistic technique, but it also highlights the dilemma confronted by artists, both then and now, who attempt to depict cities that they see but do not really know. Finally, when I began research on this project in 1993, interest in the history of city views was growing, but limited for the most part to Western Europe, North America, and, to a lesser degree, China. Studies of urban cartography relating to South America, both Luso and Spanish, existed, but they were mostly limited to individual cities and only rarely addressed any methodological concerns. Thus the opportunity arose for a more general study that would bring these cities, together with certain aspects of their history, into broader view.

I should also explain that while my name appears on the title page, this book is a collaborative effort and indeed one that could never have been completed without the assistance, and, most importantly, the insight and knowledge of Fernando Marías, Catedrático in the History of Art at the Autonomous University of Madrid. Six years ago, I envisioned this book as one that would encompass both Spain and America, with Professor Marías taking responsibility for views of Spanish cities whereas I would concentrate on those pertaining to Spanish America. The book was also conceived as something in the order of a systematic catalogue of city views that would examine, region by region, the various cities that comprised the Hispanic World. I set my sights too high. Initial research turned up far more city views than the two of us could ever possibly assimilate and digest. For this reason, a decision was made to concentrate on “public images,” that is, city views that were initially intended for publication or otherwise placed on public view, as opposed to the countless “secret” views done for administrative or strategic purposes and then tucked away, often for centuries, in legal and military archives both in Spain and Spanish America. The project was also narrowed to the point where it focused primarily, although not exclusively, on views pertaining to Spanish cities in the New World, that is, the geographical area for which I had taken prime responsibility. Nevertheless, the book still incorporates many of the methodological insights Fernando brought to the research. Consequently, in the process of writing it, I have employed the “we” instead of the “I,” partly as a way of expressing my debt to my Spanish colleague.

I would also like to acknowledge the contributions of other individuals and institutions who helped make this study possible. The Getty Grant Program offered generous financial support in the form of a three-year Senior Research Fellowship designed to foster interdisciplinary approaches to the history of art. The Collaborative Projects Program of the National Endowment for the Humanities (Grant No. RO-22758-94) provided additional funding, as did the Center for Advanced Studies in the Visual Arts, Washington, D.C., whose interest in interdisciplinary scholarship enabled Professor Marías and myself to spend the 1994–95 academic year in a stimulating (the espresso machine was especially helpful in this regard) intellectual environment. I am especially grateful to the dean of the center, Henry A. Millon, the two associate deans, Therese O’Malley and Joanne Pillsbury, and other members of the CASVA staff for their advice, encouragement and support. I would also like to acknowledge my fellow visitors at the center who listened patiently to several preliminary presentations and whose critical comments and bibliographical suggestions proved enormously helpful.

Margarita Moreno, my research assistant on this project, deserves special thanks. To a certain degree this is as much her book as mine, as she did much of the preliminary bibliographic research, compiled the long lists of images upon which the study is based, and helped plan and organize my research trips abroad. Without her assistance, this book could never have been completed.

Of almost equal importance were the suggestions of scholars whose knowledge of the material this study examines far exceeds my own. I begin with John Hébert, director of the Geography and Map Division of the Library of Congress, who not only offered behind-the-scene tours of the library’s superb collection of atlases and maps but also tutored me in the cartographic history of Spanish America. David Buisseret provided similar assistance at the Newberry Library as did Susan Dunlop at the John Carter Brown Library in Providence. I am also grateful to Norman Fiering, director of the John Carter Brown Library, both for his encouragement and the opportunity to present some preliminary findings in the form of the Sonya A. Galled Annual Lecture, which I delivered in Providence in April 1996. Additional help came from the director and staff of the Benson Latin American Collection at the University of Texas, Austin; Diana Fane, curator of Latin American painting at the Brooklyn Museum of Art; and Joe Rishel, curator of both European and Latin American paintings at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

No less crucial were the many suggestions generously offered by colleagues in the Americas, both North and South, as well as in Europe. In the first place, I would like to recognize the late Philippe Ariès, and the conversation we had — I can remember the place, the Palais de la Bière on Paris’s Left Bank, but not the exact year, although it was probably around 1980 — during which he encouraged me to explore “l’image de la ville.” Others who provided valuable assistance — and I must apologize for listing them in such a cursory fashion — include Peter Bakewell, Elizabeth Hill Boone, Jonathan Brown, Marcus Burke, Tom Cummins, Carolyn Dean, John H. Elliott, Martin Elsky, the late Jorge E. Hardoy, David Harvey, Samuel Heath, Brook Larson, María Angela Leal, Stuart Schwartz, Ben Schmidt, the late René Taylor, and Catherine Wilkinson-Zerner. In Baltimore, where most of my research and writing was done, I would like to acknowledge the comments, both critical and constructive, of my Johns Hopkins colleagues, especially Sara Castro Klaren, Elizabeth Cropper, Charles Dempsey, Thomas Izbicki, Franklin Knight, Anthony Pagden, Orest Ranum, John Russell-Wood, and Harry Sieber. Help also came from my graduate students — Bethany Aram, José Domínguez Burdalo, Ben Ehlers, Cristián Fernández Palacios, Juliet Glass, Katie Harris, Guy Lazure, Hiroaki Sakurai, David Wood, and Elizabeth Wright — participants in the Seminar of the Department of History, and the seminar of the Department of Hispanic and Italian Studies. I am especially grateful to Ida Altman of the University of New Orleans who read a draft of the entire book and whose knowledge of colonial Latin American history helped me avoid many errors both of interpretation and fact. I take full responsibility, however, for any that remain.

In Mexico Clara Bargellini provided invaluable assistance in a variety of different ways, as did Guillermo Teresa de Tovar, Jorge Alberto Manrique, and Rita Eber, director of the Instituto de Investigaciones Estéticas of the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. I am also grateful to Alberto Sarmiento, director of cultural division of the Banco de México; María Eugenia de Lara, director of the Museo Nacional de Historia; and María del Consuelo Maquívar, director of the Museo Nacional de Virreinato in Tepotzotlán. Hector Rivero Bordi, director, and other members of the staff of the Museo Franz Mayer were equally helpful, especially when, in January 1994, they rushed to my aid after I missed a step while looking at their superb lustreware collection and broke the Achilles tendon in my left ankle.

My travels elsewhere in Spanish America were less traumatic, but no less dependent on the assistance of local scholars and institutions. In Quito I was graciously received by Padre Agustín Moreno, director of Museo Filanbanco; Juan Fernández Pérez, director of the Museo del Banco Central; and Ximena de Carcelén de Coronel who not only offered me hospitality but also helped me gain access to several cloistered convents — an unforgettable experience, especially for a male.

I spent more time in Lima where I was offered assistance by Theodore Hampe-Martínez, Luis Millones, and the director and staff of Museo Pedro de Osma as well as Mariano F. Paz Soldan, former administrator of the Museo Nacional de Cultura, and José Centurión Padilla of Instituto Nacional de Cultura who helped me to obtain photographs and slides of paintings that are otherwise difficult if not impossible to obtain.

My research in Cuzco was aided by a number of individuals, notably Oswaldo Rodríguez Jimenez of the Instituto Nacional de Cultura. Oswaldo kindly took me under his wing, arranging for visits to various convents and churches and providing me with photographs of paintings that have either been lost or, for a variety of reasons, are difficult to see. He also did me the great favor of photographing the all but inaccessible but, for my purposes, extremely important painting by Francisco Chihauntito housed in the parish church of Chinchero. Additional help came from Aurelia Fuentes Medina and other members of the staff of the Fototeca Andina, in the Centro Bartolomé de las Casas, and José Ignacio Lamberri Orihuela, director of the Centro Lamberri-Orihuela, in whose house I recovered from a nasty encounter with serroche, altitude sickness of the kind visitors to Cuzco often experience.

The individuals to whom I am indebted in Bolivia are many, but I must begin with Teresa Gisbert and her husband, José de Mesa, whose pioneering publications on the history of cuzqueño art and architecture were essential starting points for my own research on Andean city views. In La Paz, I would like to acknowledge the assistance provided by Teresa Villegas de Aneiva, director of Museo Nacional de Arte; Juan Carlos Gemio, director of the Secretaria Nacional de Cultura of the Instituto Boliviano de Cultura; and Beatriz Loaiza, especially for her services as a tour guide on an exceptionally rainy trip to Carabuco, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, in order to see the paintings in the town’s parish church. In Sucre the late Gunnar Mendoza kindly shared with me his extensive knowledge of Bolivian history while Eduardo Castellón, director of the Sección Colonial of the Museo Universitario Las Charcas, introduced me to the treasures of that museum. In Potosí help came from Luis Tito Pardo, and especially Wilson Mendieta Pacheco, the now-retired director of the Museum and Archive of the Casa Nacional de la Moneda.

Elsewhere in Latin America I was helped by two former Johns Hopkins students: Jack Levy in Paraguay, and Bibi-Masumeh Eng in Chile. María Antonia Garcés helped me obtain photographs of a number of important paintings now in private collections in Columbia, and in Argentina I was ably assisted by Daniel Schávelzon. Daniel’s expertise on pre-Columbian architectural models was of particular importance.

The individuals and institutions who assisted me in Spain are so many that I can do little more than list them. They include the director and staff of the following archives, libraries, and museums: Archivo y Biblioteca Zabalburú, Archivo General de Indias, Archivo General de Simancas, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Biblioteca Nacional, Casa de Velázquez, Instituto de Valencia de Don Juan, Museo de América, and the Museo del Prado. I also owe special thanks to Jim Amelang, Joaquín Berchez, Fernando Bouza Alvarez, José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, Fátima Halcón, Vicente Lleó Cañal, Consuelo Luca de Tena, don Ignacio Medina, duke of Segorbe, Jaime de Salas, and Ramón Sererra, and his recently deceased brother Juan Miguel, all of whom assisted this project in a variety of different ways.

Photographic assistance for this book came from a variety of sources. I am especially grateful to Vicente Guijosa in Morelia, Daniel Giannone in Lima, and James T. VanRensselaer and Douglas W. Hansen, both of Homewood Photographic Services of the Johns Hopkins University.

The production of a book with as many illustrations as this one is complicated, even daunting, yet, from my perspective, it was relatively easy owing to the editorial support provided by Mayte Garrido and Vitoria Lasso de la Vega, both of Ediciones El Viso, and Kate Gallimore of Yale University Press in London. I am especially grateful to Iñigo de Oriol, President of Iberdrola, S. A., whose generous financial support made possible the earlier Spanish edition of this book. Yet when everything else is factored in, it was the foresight of my two editors, John Nicoll of Yale, and Santiago Saavedra, of Ediciones El Viso, that made this book a reality.

Finally, it should be noted that this book had both its beginning and its end in the second floor study of my Baltimore house. The study is a space I share with my wife, Marianna Shreve Simpson, and I want to thank her, both for her willingness to listen to endless snippets of this book’s argument, her art historical advice, superb editorial skills, and, most importantly, her love, encouragement, and support. I would also like to acknowledge the paleographic assistance provided by my son, Loren Simpson Kagan, during a visit to the sanctuary at Atotonilco in March 1996, as well as his interest in finding city views nestled inside paintings displayed in other Mexican churches and museums. I especially want to thank Loren for his patience in putting up with a father who, in the course of this project, spent a great deal of time on research trips away from home. Now that it is finished, perhaps Loren and I can begin to plan the trip to Australia that he has long wished for, although in the end he may well have to settle, as I did at his age, for the sights (and the smells) afforded by a drive along the Pulaski Skyway.

Richard L. Kagan
Baltimore

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