In his late teens, Federico García Lorca’s main interest was music and song. He was steeped not only in the Andalusian folk tradition but also in the European art song. He loved the work of Schubert and Beethoven.
Lorca’s arrangements for piano and voice of Andalusian folk songs, inspired by Manuel de Falla’s arrangement in 1914 of seven other Spanish songs, combine in the subtlety of their harmonies an attention to the European art tradition and to local expression. Lorca’s own voice, according to his contemporaries, was not very rich, but his playing was sophisticated and skillful, as can be attested by the series of recordings he made in 1931 accompanying Encarnación López, known as La Argentinita, the lover of his friend the bullfighter Ignacio Sánchez Mejías, whose death Lorca lamented in one of his most famous poems. His piano accompaniment on these songs can be exuberant, but it can be subdued as well. He believed in the concept of duende, a heightened soulfulness displaying an authentic, deep, and earthy emotion, but he was also a master of restraint.
Lorca’s politics overcame his natural instinct against ideology in the same way that, in his musical consciousness, the highly wrought emotions of a Schubert song opposed the fierce abandon of the traditional vocal style known as the cante jondo. Just as his talent as a lyric poet gave way to Surrealism and experimentation, under the pressure of his times his art became political. As an artist, he was interested in simple freedoms in a period in Spain when nothing was simple, when such interests came face to face with dark and malevolent forces.
He knew with an almost whimsical certainty that in Spain in 1936 the personal was political, and that the body itself, especially the body of a woman or a homosexual man, was as much the territory of conflict and destiny as the ownership of land or factories. In that fateful year he wrote a play, The House of Bernarda Alba, that had all the austerity and artful simplicity of a Schubert song. It was a play for women’s voices full of yearning and plaintive expression, but surrounded by a savage sense of restriction and cruelty that everyone in the audience Lorca imagined for his play would know and recognize.
He was too subtle to make this obvious or programmatic, and too interested in the pure excitement and depth of the conflict between his characters to make them smaller than the world outside. He wrote them with the same strange tenderness that George Eliot used to create her idealistic men such as Will Ladislaw or Daniel Deronda, or that homosexual writers from Henry James to Tennessee Williams used to imagine their women trapped by convention. And he shared with Oscar Wilde that pure confidence in his own…
This is exclusive content for subscribers only.
Get unlimited access to The New York Review for just $1 an issue!
Continue reading this article, and thousands more from our archive, for the low introductory rate of just $1 an issue. Choose a Print, Digital, or All Access subscription.