Interview with Eduardo Alaminos, museologist specialising in the work of Ramón Gómez de la Serna

Eduardo Alaminos: « My cycle of reading and study of Ramón is coming to an end»

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Andreu Navarra

Eduardo Alaminos López (Madrid, 1950) holds a degree in Philosophy and Arts and a Master’s in Museology from the Complutense University of Madrid. He has just published an original work: Ramón dibujante. El lápiz atrevido (Ediciones Ulises), the latest fruit of a life devoted to the author of El dueño del átomo.

What was Ramón’s Madrid like?

It was a dual city: exhibiting numerous pre-industrial features alongside distinctly modern or incipiently modern elements across a range of spheres, especially the literary and artistic, but also urban planning and everyday customs. It was a period—spanning from 1902 to 1939—that has come to be known in cultural terms as the “Silver Age”, so splendidly examined by José-Carlos Mainer and, from a generational perspective, by Julián Marías. Yet for Ramón, Madrid was above all an itinerary. Excluding his travels throughout Europe—what he called the “Europe of Cafés”, including Paris, Estoril, Lisbon, and Naples where he resided for extended periods—and his stays in Buenos Aires in 1931 and 1933, a significant portion of his life unfolded here, in his Madrid, which figures so prominently in his writings, articles, and books.

«Objectively speaking, the Madrid through which Ramón wandered coincides almost exactly with the meticulous depiction found in Información sobre la ciudad año 1929. Memoria»

Objectively speaking, the Madrid through which Ramón wandered coincides almost exactly with the meticulous depiction found in Información sobre la ciudad año 1929. Memoria. This report, compiled by the City Council for the benefit of architects and urban planners participating in the 1928 International Competition aimed at addressing various urban issues and planning Madrid’s expansion, remains a fundamental reference in Madrid’s urban historiography. As Fernando de Terán has emphasised, its value lies in telling us precisely what Madrid was like at the time. But in Ramón’s case, what truly matters is the way he perceived and expressed the city’s physical and human realities—through what Francisco Umbral, in Ramón y las vanguardias, described as “an unusual language, Madrid life encapsulated in a European avant-garde idiom (…) injecting everydayness and madrileñismo into an avant-garde prose seemingly tailored to recount the extraordinary”.

If I may, I would direct interested readers to the compilation of three hundred articles on Madrid which I assembled and edited in 2014 under the title Madrid en Ramón. La nota vaga y perdida de sus calles y de sus horas. La Tribuna (5 de enero de 1916-12 de enero de 1922), available on the website of the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo de Madrid. Even the titles of the four chapters into which the collection is divided give a sense of Ramón’s totalising vision—almost an exhaustive inventory—of the city and of himself; one could almost speak of a literary transliteration of the object in question, namely the city, and Madrid in particular. The subtitle of this collection—drawn from a single newspaper over a specific period—La nota vaga y perdida de sus calles y de sus horas (“The vague, lost note of its streets and hours”) situates us fully within the nature of Ramón’s vision. Readers might also profitably compare these pieces, to appreciate approaches, correlations, and differences, with Josep Pla’s Dietarios de Madrid, from 1921 and 1933, in the first of which, incidentally, there appears an unforgettable sketch of the Ramón of Pombo.

What is Madrid like today, culturally speaking? How do you see your city now?

It is a culturally fragmented city, open to novelty, yet also with one eye fixed on the past and tradition. Eclectic, yet also critical, with a pronounced (and at times instrumental) institutional presence. Madrid has always been, and remains, an open, diverse, and plural city, though it is no longer central nor centralising. It now resembles, in some ways, the image of London evoked by Jorge Luis Borges in The Aleph: “I saw a shattered labyrinth (it was London)”.

When and how did your interest in the vast figure of Ramón begin?

In my book Los Despachos de Ramón Gómez de la Serna. Un Museo portátil “monstruoso” (2014), I recount how prior to 1976 I had the opportunity to see the first installation of Ramón’s Buenos Aires study, as set up by the Madrid City Council in the Casa de la Carnicería, Plaza Mayor, before it was incorporated into the Municipal Museum in 1976. If my memory serves me right, that was my first direct encounter with Ramón, although I should also mention an earlier one, in my adolescence, through the venerable Austral Collection by Espasa-Calpe, which included several of his works, among them Nostalgias de Madrid.

Later, in 1982, I once again crossed paths with Ramón when I joined the Municipal Museum of Madrid (now the Museum of the History of Madrid), located on Fuencarral Street—a street where Ramón himself lived with his parents between 1901 and 1903. At the time, his study had been placed in storage following the 1980 exhibition Ramón en cuatro entregas, curated by Juan Manuel Bonet. That catalogue became essential reading for me.

In 1995, while preparing the Guía del Museo Municipal de Madrid. La Historia de Madrid en sus Colecciones, I authored the chapter on “Twentieth-Century Madrid”, where I made brief mention of Ramón’s study in the context of the museum’s new permanent display, which for the first time included its hitherto-unexhibited contemporary art collection.

But above all—and most significantly—Eduardo Salas Vázquez and I oversaw the more expansive reinstallation of the study in what had once been the sacristy of the Church of the Hospice of San Fernando, the museum’s present-day home. There, it was placed alongside the twentieth-century art collection. Reflecting on it now, there is something internally poetic about the fact that this key feature of Ramón’s life was permanently housed in a desacralised sacristy, and that Ramón himself named his famous literary gathering “La Sagrada Cripta de Pombo” (“The Sacred Crypt of Pombo”).

On page 26 of your new essay, you write: “Ramón’s prose, regardless of the genre in which it is expressed, is saturated with images; thus, it is hardly surprising that he should, at some point, have considered—have seen clearly—the possibility of accompanying or extending part of his literary output graphically”. Could you elaborate on this?

The graphic extension of the written word—intended to clarify or illuminate what is written, to use one of Ramón’s own adjectives—is closely bound up with his literary production, especially his shorter pieces: articles, compositions in the form of apologues included in works such as Variaciones Iª Serie, Ramonismo, Caprichos, Gollerías or Trampantojos, and, of course, his celebrated greguerías, which Pura Fernández aptly termed his “universal password” and by which he is now internationally recognised.

«The graphic extension of the written word—intended to clarify or illuminate what is written, to use one of Ramón’s own adjectives—is closely bound up with his literary production, especially his shorter pieces»

The graphic aspect by which he complements and simultaneously expands these brief prose forms is clearly illustrated in his definition of greguerías and greguerismo, published on 7 January 1913 in La Tribuna—a piece met, as we know, with scepticism, if not outright irritation, from readers, nearly costing him his place at the paper. In it, Ramón writes:

“The greguería conjugates the verb like nothing else; it dialogues, it shouts, it murmurs, it falls silent, it makes a precise gesture with the hand or the nose, it creates a graffiti like those children draw on house walls or fences; it hints at a theme, reaches for the paintbox and adds a brushstroke—just one, but enough, and it must suffice; it abhors rigidity, fanaticism, cliché; it has space for drama, comedy, the puppet theatre, verse, anecdote, politics, the city and, above all, for woman, who is fragmentary and so greguería-like; it is the journalistic genre that simplifies the chronicle, which, at its most bloated, is merely an inflated, puffed-up, obese greguería; and in print, it has the flexibility demanded by modern machines. Amidst all this hullabaloo, its acrobatics, oversights, puerilities, its tragicomic jests, it must maintain a rigorous internal rhythm which, though not outwardly apparent, underpins and sustains its peculiar nature, lending unity to its landscape and its flesh”.

The references to visuality and to graffiti—the kind “children draw” (he might equally have said “illustrate”)—as well as to the paintbox and brushstrokes, are highly revealing. They suggest that Ramón already sensed these brief literary pieces carried a visual, plastic quality which might be rendered graphically. At the time, however, he did not yet link this with drawing. I have shortened the quotation here, but in any case, one cannot grasp the essence of avant-garde languages without acknowledging the centrality of image. Ramón’s prose unmistakably privileges the image. He was—undeniably—a forerunner and beacon of the avant-garde, as many recognised in his own time. It is hardly surprising, then, that he should cultivate both literary and graphic imagery in keeping with his multifaceted and multi-stylistic worldview.

To close this thread connecting text, image, and drawing, let us recall a greguería published on 29 June 1914, also in La Tribuna: “When passing the razor over the strop one feels the unlikely fear that one’s arm might slip and cut through the chest, bevelling it. The fear of the razor and its immense effectiveness has no equal; perhaps only that firearm with the ‘Maxim silencer’—that American device, banned from sale, which muffles the sound of shots—might compare on certain nights”. In his 1917 book Greguerías, Ramón excised the reference to the firearm, stripping the piece of extraneous elements and leaving only the powerful image of the razor and strop.

«Ramón did not illustrate or draw this greguería, but I believe Luis Buñuel did so, at another graphic level—specifically the cinematic one—in the “prologue of the slashed eye” in the film he created with Salvador Dalí, El perro andaluz (1929)»

To my knowledge, Ramón did not illustrate or draw this greguería, but I believe Luis Buñuel did so, at another graphic level—specifically the cinematic one—in the “prologue of the slashed eye” in the film he created with Salvador Dalí, El Perro andaluz (1929). If we substitute the breast for the eye, we can grasp the potential visual power contained in, and indeed emanating from, Ramón’s greguerías (of which this is one example)—a power that Buñuel was able to transform, in that film, into an unforgettable and disturbing image.

Guillermo de Torre, in his Literaturas europeas de vanguardia (1925), noted that Ramón discovered the formula for “visual atomisation”, which allowed him to “strip things of their pomp, sow smiles, and untangle ideas, gestures, and objects that had remained motionless”. He also associated Ramón’s prose with a picturesque quality and a somewhat troubadour-like approach. More recently, Agustín Sánchez Vidal described the greguería as “a bridge between metaphor, close-up, and gag”, a characterisation taken up by Román Gubern, who observed that “many of Ramón’s greguerías suggest dazzling exercises in cinematic montage—only realised through words”.

Without doubt, Ramón’s words contain a latent graphic image. He was deeply interested in popular graphic and textual forms that fuse text and image inseparably, such as Aleluyas. Later, in 1947, in Trampantojos, Ramón announced that he was publishing for the first time in book form a series of Greguerías ilustradas—some of which had already appeared in periodicals, Blanco y Negro in particular—“clarified by drawings of my own pen, whether or not they bear my R signature, and which, naturally, are not intended to compete with professional artists”. The book’s title refers, as we know, to a pictorial genre designed to deceive (and delight) the eye. At a certain moment, Ramón realised he could complement his prose with his own drawings. This insight, combined with his consistent engagement with art criticism, led him to sketch a poetics of this humorous and self-referential role as his own illustrator—an aspect I explore in Ramón dibujante. El lápiz atrevido.

Have you written a book of art criticism?

This question surprises me for several reasons—I had not quite considered the possibility. In truth, perhaps I am now channelling a dimension of myself cultivated many years ago, and recently recalled by Juan Manuel Bonet in reference to my book Ramón y Pombo (libros y tertulia 1915–1957), where he writes: “Eduardo Alaminos was a combative young art critic who accompanied artists such as Carlos Alcolea, Nacho Criado, Zaj Juan Hidalgo, José María Mezquita and Santiago Serrano, among others. We crossed paths then at Buades, PPROPAC, Arte/facto and other scenes of a Madrid undergoing rapid transformation”.

«Wherever we open Ramón dibujante. El lápiz atrevido, the reader will encounter highly specific observations concerning formal resources, composition, graphic treatment, “style”, subjects and themes, along with comments on the zigzagging poetics that Ramón developed around this activity of»

It may be, indeed, that what emerges throughout this book—focused on Ramón’s drawings—is the need to carry out an inventory and catalogue raisonné of his graphic work. And I do mean raisonné, even though that term is usually reserved for established artists. For this is no minor strand of Ramón’s output. Perhaps, in my case and at the time I wrote the book, it had more to do with my profession in the field of museums and the artistic or documentary collections I have worked with.

Wherever we open Ramón dibujante. El lápiz atrevido, the reader will encounter highly specific observations concerning formal resources, composition, graphic treatment, “style”, subjects and themes, along with comments on the zigzagging poetics that Ramón developed around this activity of his and gradually expressed over time. I am fully aware, however, that producing a complete—and, why not, raisonné—catalogue of his drawings would require a team of collaborators willing to tackle the many challenges such a task entails. At the same time and in the same spirit, I am also conscious that this book represents a step in that direction.

Which is your favourite book by Ramón, and why?

I have a particular fondness for two of Ramón’s books: El Rastro and Automoribundia (1888–1948), although the ones I have reread most frequently are those devoted to his Pombo gathering. El Rastro is a unique and fascinating book, open to multiple interpretations—including that of Ramón’s own psyche—while also being a fundamental work within the bibliography on Madrid. It is a marvellous inventory-book and, to borrow Ramón’s own expression, “a bucketful of images”. As I pointed out in my book devoted to Ramón’s studies, it is also a diagnostic book that suggests “Ramón’s psychological anxiety about objects”.

I believe it also contains a proto-Joycean quality—avant la lettre—and is, of course, an immediate precursor of surrealism through its poetic exploration of a fascinating objectual heterogeneity: “objects that never yield to thought”, as Ramón once put it. At the same time, it remains deeply rooted in realist literature (or “infra-realist”, to use Ortega’s term) and, why not say it openly, in the tradition of costumbrismo, offering a deeply penetrating gaze into social types and customs.

To paraphrase Neil MacGregor, it is A History of Madrid in 100 Objects. And Automoribundia is Ramón in his purest form: not only a splendid memoir, but also the novel of an artist and an evocation of another era.

In 2014, you were responsible for the installation of Ramón Gómez de la Serna’s study. What was that experience like? How did the idea come about?

The installation of Ramón’s study was the result of the Museological Plan I undertook at the time to reorganise the contemporary art collections then held by the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo de Madrid (MAC). I have always regarded Ramón’s study on two levels: as a significant, key and essential item of Madrid’s historical and artistic heritage, and as an expressive correlative of the avant-garde in Madrid, which Ramón Gómez de la Serna so vividly embodied. Based on these premises, I wanted to endow the MAC with a singular piece that would both identify the museum and give it a distinct character within the broader context of Madrid’s other museums. Something akin to its identity card.

«I have always regarded Ramón’s study on two levels: as a significant, key and essential item of Madrid’s historical and artistic heritage, and as an expressive correlative of the avant-garde in Madrid»

I feel it is fitting to acknowledge here and now the architects Vicente Patón (†) and Alberto Tellería, and the Serrano brothers, graphic designers—especially Carlos (who also designed my book Los Despachos de Ramón Gómez de la Serna. Un museo portátil “monstruoso”)—thanks to whom we produced an image of the study markedly different from previous iterations. This included, for instance, the structural layout of the space, which, and this is something I mention for the first time, was based on the idea I had of starting with a folding screen, an object with a highly significant iconographic role in Ramón’s objectual and visual universe. We also included, on the external side of the structure, phrases by Ramón himself referring to his studies, extracted from Automoribundia. Around the study, we created a more complex surrounding area, including a video with cinematic references and testimonies about both the study and Ramón himself, reproductions of his drawings, a space devoted to Pombo designed as a small salon for talks and lectures, and another area for cabinet exhibitions on Ramón-related themes.

In the latter space, I curated the exhibitions Ramón: “Con la pluma del escritor están hechos estos dibujos…” and La Suite Senefelder & Co. de Eduardo Arroyo visita el despacho de Ramón Gómez de la Serna.

You were Director of the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo de Madrid at Conde Duque between 2001 and 2014. What are your fondest memories from that period?

First and foremost, I take pride in having succeeded in putting a local contemporary art museum on the map in Madrid—on a par with the city’s two other local museums: the Museo de Historia (formerly the Municipal Museum, dedicated to Madrid’s historical collections), and the Museo de San Isidro (focused on the city’s archaeological collections). In a city such as Madrid, home to major museums of diverse typologies, maintaining an ambitious programme over time—with extremely limited resources—of both acquisitions and permanent exhibitions (each with their respective catalogues), as well as temporary exhibitions (also each with its own catalogue), was no small feat. And of course, the personal relationships formed along the way were also deeply meaningful.

This passage of yours caught my attention: “Could one speak of a certain Franciscanism of the discarded and the useless, of the nearly unrecoverable? I believe so” (p. 131). Could you tell us a bit more about that?

I recall having already hinted at this in my book Los Despachos de Ramón Gómez de la Serna. Un museo portátil “monstruoso” (2014), when referring to a review published in El Noroeste in October 1923 on the occasion of a lecture Ramón gave on streetlamps. The reviewer observed how “through Ramón’s heartfelt words, a deep fervour for humble things was evident”. Following that quote, I wrote: “as if to underline a certain Franciscanism”, and immediately wondered whether Ramón might have read Chesterton’s book on Saint Francis of Assisi, translated by Rivas Cherif during those same years.

Now, in my book on Ramón as draughtsman, I go somewhat further—indeed, significantly further—and suggest that his early appreciation of humble and useless things, which he discerned in the context of a shifting historical cycle ushering in modernity and its new objects and designs, and which he delighted in describing during his wanderings through the various Rastros¹ he frequented, might be seen as a precursor to the arte povera defined by the Italian critic Germano Celant in the 1960s.

Ramón had a vital disposition to preserve many of these humble objects through both the written word and drawing. As an example—aside from his book El Rastro—we might consider what he wrote to the pombianos in his Segundo Viaje a Portugal about the “feira da Ladra”, Lisbon’s Rastro: “Of course, nothing can surpass the Rastro [of Madrid]; but the ‘feira da Ladra’, the Rastro here, is quite something. It also sprawls along a slope, for the supreme dump of each city, its Rastro, must be arranged thus, on an incline […]. Amid the revolutum of all the strange objects that can only be found at the Rastros, one finds that object which is its own attribute and which is never banal, for it would be natural to encounter the banal everywhere.
It is also evident that the detritus of humanity is always the same, and one recognises the identical underlying fabric of poverty and sorrow that lies hidden within the city. Here, it is laid bare: the interiors of all homes are revealed […]. There is something in the act of looking at these fallen objects akin to overhearing confidences […] like the grey dust that fills the heart of things at the Rastro”.

Or indeed his interest in the modest signs and commercial advertisements in cities, which he compiled—both textually and graphically—like an urban ethnographer, as I have discussed in my article Ramón y la ‘anunciografía’ (in Calle del Aire. Revista de literatura 4, 2022).

«I have always thought that the writer I would most have liked to meet is Miguel de Cervantes, along with the Madrid of his time»

Will you continue with Ramón? Will you delve deeper into Ramonismo?

My cycle of reading and studying Ramón is coming to an end. I am currently preparing one final piece of writing on the study, and I believe that with it I will close the circle.

What would you say to Ramón Gómez de la Serna if he were standing in front of you by chance in a café?

I have always thought that the writer I would most have liked to meet is Miguel de Cervantes, along with the Madrid of his time. But if I had the opportunity to meet Ramón, not in just any café but at his Pombo gathering, I would not wish so much to speak with him directly as to listen to everything that was said there—by him and by the other pombianos and attendees; the recto and verso of all that was spoken. That would have been my ideal book on Ramón: the faithful transcription of everything discussed each Saturday at the Café and at the Pombo gathering.
It wouldn’t have been at all bad, either, to accompany Ramón on one of his walks through Madrid and to hear his commentary first-hand.

___

¹ flea market

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