From the chronicle of Siegfried Bosch (Barcelona, 1916-1940) sent a September in war from the front of Chinchon (Madrid) to Advertising (11-IX-1937). Two years ago today, the Historical Archives of the City of Barcelona announced that the family of Siegfried Bosch had donated the personal funds of this historian, lawyer and journalist who died very young from unknown causes and which has been ignored until now Image: Grau Sala’s 1935 drawing mentioned in the text.
The bohemia created – or portrayed – so wonderfully by the genius of Muger and Musset is not a product exclusively of the last century. I live in a bohemia – with me some colleagues who are also Catalan – have nothing to envy to that of the famous Parisian Latin Quarter, or that of the good times of the “Quatre Gats” hostel. That is to say, nothing. There is one factor that essentially differentiates one bohemia from another. The sentimental atmosphere, pleasant, in a certain way – at least, as the authors who have dedicated their best productions have made us imagine it – contrasts rudely with the brutal reality of mine. The war is what has created this bohemia. A restless bohemian, tormented not only by a desire to realize an artistic entelechy – and even by the prosaic things of an empty stomach -, but also by the natural nervousness that comes with the proximity of the place where she makes her life to the advanced of combat which, in a certain way, are yet another border within the lands of Iberia. The sending of this year’s Catalan leva to the lands of Castile has been the generator of this bohemia. It is true that the large family of Catalans who left Barcelona in the last week of August has dispersed to the different sectors of the Center front, but in the nucleus with which I live (in Chinchon) it still remains – as in the Cenacle of Bohemia, by Murger (author ofScenes of bohemian lifefrom 1849)- a Schaunard, a Rodolf, a Marcel, a Colline, artists like them, or, like them too, aspiring to be (characters of bohemian by Puccini, based on Murger’s work). Above all is Coline, the philosopher, who rules. In the group I’m referring to, it has become the case that among the books that are read the signatures are less appropriate in relation to the time and the place from which I am writing: there is Schopenhauer, the Jo of Prudenci Bertrana, the candid of Voltaire and the Nothing new in the West by Remarque. But the Colline here – my cellmate – is not exclusively a philosopher: in Barcelona he was a lawyer. His philosophy, skeptical in the extreme, has made him highly adaptable to the demands of life on the front lines. (…) There is also the school teacher, the student, the man of letters and the historian. There is also no shortage of a Schaunard, who reminds us, in our moments of nostalgia and longing – we have them too often – the best airs and songs of the apple of our eyes that is Catalonia. Yesterday, while a few kilometers from the demolished convent that serves as our barracks thundered, insistently, a very strong artillery duel, the student, Colline and I held a passionate discussion about the guidelines of very modern painting. ones Literary notebooks those of the first period converge in Grau Sala’s drawing. I state, with the satisfaction of those who admire it, that the praise was unanimous. (…)
Source: www.ara.cat
