Refractions of Queer Iberia: Post-Francoist
Peninsular Camp Leora Lev, Bridgewater State College
Id like to sketch some of the multitudinous
pathways opened by Queer Iberia for twenty-first-century Spanish
Studies, and the tapestried resonances between issues raised by this brilliant
and pioneering scholarly enterprise and that of contemporary writers, visual
artists and cultural critics who also queer Iberia in ways that are both
contemporary and uncannily familiar. I hope to gesture toward some of the
fruitful, and perhaps surprising, consonances between Queer
Iberias project of exposing a rigid Inquisitional logic which,
paradoxically, both underwrites medieval and Renaissance Iberian identities
(linguistic, cultural, ethnic, theological, gendered, sexed, etc.) and is
undermined by the latter; and the impetus of queer post-Francoist literary and
visual artists who allude to Inquisitional logic as a means of linking it to
Francoist thinking. Contemporary figures such as Lluís Fernàndez,
Terenci Moix, Carlos Varo, Juan Goytisolo, Miss Shanghai Lily and Pedro
Almodóvar weave connections between dark hegemonic moments in Spanish
history as a means of envisioning new identities, social structures and
political possibilities that depart from the dichotomized hierarchies of
cultural value encoded within Inquisitional logic and its institutional
laws.
These writers and filmmakers create an idiosyncratic camp
aesthetic that probes, unsettles and reconstructs regional, national, cultural
and gender histories within a post-Francoist Spain. This aesthetic performs a
celebratory dismantling of the Inquisitional and Francoist logic that has
underwritten official histories of absolutism, surveillance and self-other
ontologies that privilege a self who is castellano, Catholic,
heterosexual and male over a series of tainted others:
catalán, Semitic, homosexual, female, Latin American. I do not
mean to suggest that Inquisitional hegemonies can be conflated with their
fascist counterparts, or that twentieth-century militaristic fascism can be
mapped wholesale onto the oppression of Inquisitional institution and law, or
that the Francoist firing squad is reducible to the auto-da-fé.
However, these writers do unveil and identify consonances between Francoist
fascism (and the ideological agenda that it set forth as a means of controlling
Spanish social-political configurations during the dictadura) and an
unyielding Inquisitional logic that similarly informed social mores, law and
culture during the period encompassed by Queer Iberia.
Complementarily, these authors position clandestine or marginal-ized histories
center stage and hypothesize a post-Francoist future of permeable identities
shifting toward, to borrow from Michael Warner, a productively queer planet.
They do so by elaborating a camp aesthetic that reconstitutes suppressed
histories, and that both converges with and diverges from its Anglo-American
counterpart. They often enlist transvestism and transsexualism as poetic tropes
to redress Inquisitional ideologies in a camp performance that slips from the
giddy to a grand guignol carnage sharing affinities with the grotesque of
Velázquez, Quevedo, Goya, Dalí and Buñuel. The frothy fun
of cross-dressing is cut with a strychnine dose of violence, of bodily and
textual dismemberment and disfigurement. The interstitial liberatory moments,
while remaining peculiar to a contemporary post-Francoist moment, are also
resonant with the queer spaces that, as Queer Iberia essayists have
shown, marginal Iberians carved for themselves even amidst an existence
sketched in the grey contours of Inquisitional law.
Ill limit
myself to looking at Carlos Varos 1987 novel Rosa mystica, whose
queering operations, like those of the aforementioned writers, are both eerily
and felicitously resonant with those of the essays in Queer Iberia.
Rosa mystica deploys an elaborate aesthetic to foreground the
constructedness of all identities naturalized as immutable and divinely
sponsored by Peninsular theological and cultural mythologies. Varo destabilizes
identities fixed in dichotomous pairs by fascist or neo-colonialist thinking:
holiness and blasphemy; masculinity and femininity; homosexuality and
heterosexuality; limpieza de sangre and Semitic sangre manchada;
Peninsular and Latin American. Varos destruction of the fascist
boundaries that separate these categories yields new possibilities for
post-Francoist and transnational subjectivities and identities. The latter are
emblematized by the two protagonists of Rosa mystica: the eponymous
fin de siglo Spanish hermaphrodite turned beautiful, mysterious,
founder-in-drag of a convent for wayward women, and Divina, a
puertorriqueño street tough named Juniol who is
transmuted into Divina, an international transsexual celebrity. Connections
between these two protagonists narratives cross-reference Spanish, Puerto
Rican and North African transnational, cultural and gender identities against a
nationalist rhetoric that would binarize them as discrete. This continual
defamiliarization and recontextualization, further, enacts the paradox that Moe
Meyer articulates in his axiomatic on camp, which makes queer identity visible
and present through parodic performances of precisely those heterosexist
structures and scenarios that render queerness invisible (5).
Varo
enlists a lush, high modernista prose to evoke the trajectory of Rosa
Mystica, born at the turn of the nineteenth century, and a first-person
puertorriqueño Spanglish to tell the tale of Juniol/Divina. These
heteroglossic, allusive discourses mirror the labyrinthine trajectories of the
two disparate characters. Here, as in Juan Goytisolo or Lluís
Fernàndez, linguistic cross-dressing highlights that which fascist and
neo-colonialist ideologies would submerge: the shifting boundaries between
abjection and epiphany, blasphemy and holiness, perversion and normalcy. The
mystic epiphanies of San Juan are cross-referenced with the corporeal prison
excesses of Jean Genet; both experiences are shown to nourish and correspond to
each other in a manner that recalls the linguistic ribaldry explicated by
Louise Vasvári as core to the Libro de buen amor. Like
Fernàndez, Varo re-constructs the theological mythologies that form the
basis of Spanish culture: ¿Sería blasfemo interpretar la
Trinidad como una mítica alegoría homofílica? El Padre se
mira, se conoce y se ama en el Espejo de su con-Ciencia y engendra al Logos, el
verbo. Su Amor recíproco se hace también Persona, el
Espíritu Santo, Paloma de Fuego. Ménage à trois
(145). This reformulation of the theological explications of the mysteries of
the Trinity reveals the bias that is both inherent in theogical stories and
submerged from heteronormative fascist consciousness: that holiness and
heterosexuality are mutually reinforcing ideological constructs.
The
essentialist myths that constitute the Marian cult are likewise denaturalized:
La iglesia, a falta de esa diosa de tantas religiones orientales,
entroniza en su nicho vacío a María, y la inviste de la doble y
mágica condición de Virgen y Madre, pero no de Hembra
(141). As contemporary feminist and cultural critics from Marsha Kinder to Mary
Daly have shown, the medieval Marian cult is an ideological foundation of a
whore/madonna dichotomy in which femininity is idealized and de-eroticized
through the icon of a female body that is immaculately impregnated by the grace
of God. This cultural fantasy both apotheosizes and reduces femininity to a
vessel that nurtures the son of a male-identified god within a masculinist,
theological patrilineage. The virgins counterpart is, of course, the
vampiric, lascivious whore who lives only to ruin men through her own
blasphemous sexual appetite; Mary and the still unrepentant Magdalen, Eve and
Lilith, Mina Harker and Lucy Westenra in Bram Stokers Dracula, the
characters played by Glenn Close and Ann Archer in Fatal Attraction, and
on.
Instead of naturalizing the ideologies that nourish the Marian
cult, the novel valorizes Muslim culture, and the significance within it of
sensuality and the ephebe, while also exposing the eroticism that underlies
much of Catholic spectacle. Rosa Mysticas fetishizing as a beautiful
young boy by the nuns, monks and villagers who cast him as a star in religious
spectacles mirrors the fetishizing of the handsome young Puerto Rican
Juniol by the other prisoners for whom he becomes, in a Genetian
power hierarchy, mami and mujel. Likewise, nationalist
ideologies of empire and boundary are dismantled by the very body of Juniol,
who has now become Divina: a veces pienso si de verdad tuve un hijo.
¿Qué soy yo, su padre o su madre? Que a veces pienso que yo soy
como el Estado Libre de Puerto Rico: ni canne ni pescao (133). This
indeterminacy and self-fashioning within the interstices of machista
puertorriqueño culture, as well as the imperialist impetus that
still underwrites some Castilian thinking about its Caribbean ex-colonies, are
reminiscent of the ingenuity of Eleno/a de Céspedes, as explicated in
Queer Iberia by Israel Burshatin.
The arbitrariness and
constructedness of Inquisitional and fascist ideologies of religion, gender and
nation are revealed and resisted by Varo and contemporaries from Lluís
Fernàndez to Pedro Almodóvar with a violent retooling of bodily
contours. Masculinity is redefined through the looking-glass of certain Muslim
homoerotic practices in which the homosexual/heterosexual divide is less
significant than is the location of masculinity in the active, rather than
passive, performance of sodomy; or the Genetian prison microcosm of the
macho who takes another man as his hembra. Both femininity and
bodily sex are shown to be ever-shifting constructs that can be attained,
reassigned, or broken down by the subject in question. For Rosa Mystica and
Divina, the pleasure yielded by their new, or undecidable, body parts only
highlights the constructedness of gender identity; the physical accoutrements,
maquillage, props, prostheses and demeanors are shown to be just those,
supports naturalized by society as feminine or masculine, hetero- or
homosexual.
At stake in Rosa mystica, then, is not accession to
some immutable, essential identity, but the right to pursue whichever version
of gender, political, national, or cultural identity that, for whatever
complicated matrix of reasons, yields pleasure and meaning to the subject.
Personal agency is not easily separable from the politico-cultural,
psychosexual, socio-economic and historic epistemes that constitute these
characters. But perhaps it can be located, suggests Varo, in the willful
decision of which identity to appropriate, perform, or embroider within the
crawlspace of fascist ideologies. Inquisitional and Francoist ideologies have,
in turn, given way to new dangers of a cannibalistic, corporatized society of
the spectacle in which performance can become yet another glossy product to be
sold for profit. Yet this camp aesthetic, eschewing both feel-good political
utopianism and bleak, cynical nihilism, re-hypothesizes new possibilities for
queer and feminist self-constructions that avoid the landmines of fascist
agendas. This is a dangerous but liberating aesthetic, whose rewards and risks
are articulated by Lluís Fernàndez character Eugenio in
El anarquista desnudo: El precio de la libertad siempre es una u
otra clase de cáncer.... Sumergir la ciudad con la pornografia de
nuestros cuerpos ... habrá ruidos de vida o silencio de muerte
(86).
Queer Iberia illuminates the byzantine and artful
intricacies of such refashionings, such productive crossings over of regional,
cultural, linguistic, gendered, theological and physiological boundaries. In
enabling a critical unveiling of postmodernist camp spectacles resonances
with Renaissance resistance to Inquisitional logic, the volume brings into
indispensable polylogue crucial moments in Iberias secret histories
across time. Queer Iberia continues to envision fruitfully perverse
disciplinary hybrids and recombinations that signal new life for
twenty-first-century Iberian Studies.