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© Art Review Miami |
© By Ana Bikic' & William M. Coulthatd
Contact: miamiartreviews@gmail.com
Benito Quinquela Martín: When an Artist Becomes the Identity of a Place
I grew up in Argentina with Benito Quinquela Martín already somewhere in my life, long before I knew enough about art history to understand what his work represented.
My grandmother, Teresa Somerau, was an Impressionistic artist of the 1920s. She admired Quinquela enormously and owned two of his paintings. I remember seeing them in her home when I was a child. At that age, you don't necessarily understand the importance of what is hanging on a wall. It is simply part of the world around you.
My grandmother had visited La Boca herself, and Quinquela's work made a strong impression on her. From her memories of the port, and from the inspiration she found in him, she painted her own interpretation of that world. I still have that painting.
The two Quinquelas eventually left our family collection. I regret that today. But perhaps some things enter our visual memory before we are old enough to understand what they are giving us.
What remained with me was not only the memory of the paintings. It was my grandmother's way of looking at art.
She taught me that a painting should first be read from far away.
You should be able to enter a room and feel the painting before examining its details. Its composition, its movement, its large areas of darkness and light should have enough strength to make you cross the room toward it.
But bringing the viewer closer is only half the job.
Once you arrive in front of the painting, there has to be another reason to remain.
You begin discovering things. A person. A gesture. A bird. An object half hidden in darkness. A face that was invisible from across the room. A stroke that belonged to a large mass suddenly becomes a figure or a piece of machinery. There should be life to investigate, questions to ask, something that continues to unfold.
It cannot be just a picture. Something has to happen.
That idea became fundamental to the way I eventually understood art. Beauty matters. Technique matters enormously. But technical excellence by itself can produce a beautiful decoration. The works that remain in our minds usually give us something else: a story, a question, knowledge, mystery, human experience, a symbol, perhaps even a fragment of history.
Quinquela did that.
From across a room, his paintings can strike you through enormous forces of light and darkness, smoke and sky, water and hulls, vertical cranes and masts, diagonal movement and heavy masses of paint. Then you approach, and another world appears. Workers emerge. Men bend, carry, pull and climb. Ships are being loaded and repaired. Smoke rises. The port is functioning.
The painting becomes populated by a society.
And that distinction is important, because Quinquela was not reconstructing somebody else's world.
He was there.
A Child Without a Certain Birthday
The beginning of Quinquela's life sounds almost like something invented for a novel.
On March 21, 1890, an infant approximately twenty days old was left at the Casa de Expósitos in Buenos Aires with a note giving his name as Benito Juan Martín. His exact birthday was unknown; March 1 was estimated for him. Around the age of six, he was adopted by Manuel Chinchella, a Genoese immigrant from Nervi, and Justina Molina, an Argentine woman from Gualeguaychú, Entre Ríos.
That distinction is important when discussing immigration and Quinquela. He himself was born in Buenos Aires. But immigration surrounded his life.
His adoptive father was Genoese. La Boca was profoundly marked by Italian immigration. The languages, customs, labor and social life of the neighborhood developed during one of the greatest periods of immigration in Argentine history.
Between 1870 and 1913, more than five million migrants entered through the port of Buenos Aires, predominantly from Southern Europe, particularly Italy and Spain. During those same decades, Argentina was expanding rapidly within the international economy. Buenos Aires grew from roughly 207,000 inhabitants around 1870 to approximately 1.5 million by 1913, with nearly half of its population foreign-born.
Those numbers are astonishing, but numbers can also conceal the human reality.
Every one of those immigrants arrived carrying something that cannot be entered into a statistical table: a language, memories, recipes, skills, religious beliefs, political ideas, prejudices, music, ways of building, ways of making things, ways of seeing.
That is what migration does.
People move, but knowledge moves with them.
Argentina was being changed through these encounters. Buenos Aires absorbed European architectural and cultural influences on an enormous scale, while the people arriving were themselves transformed by the country in which they settled.
Culture does not arrive sealed inside a suitcase and remain unchanged.
It encounters another place.
Something new begins.
Quinquela grew up inside that process.
His adoptive parents operated a coal yard in La Boca, and after only a few years of formal schooling he began helping them. By 1905 he was working alongside his father unloading at the port. The thin young worker acquired the nickname “Mosquito,” despite doing physically demanding labor.
This matters when we look at his paintings of workers.
He wasn't observing port labor as an interesting subject from a comfortable distance. He knew what physical work felt like.
That knowledge entered the paintings.
The Port Was Not Scenery
It is very easy today to look at an old harbor painting and see romance.
The old ships are beautiful. Smoke becomes atmospheric. Weathered buildings become picturesque. Industrial structures acquire nostalgia once the noise, dirt, danger and physical exhaustion have disappeared.
But a working port is not scenery.
It is an organism.
Ships arrive because something is being transported. Workers are there because something has to be moved. Warehouses exist because goods have to be stored. Railways and roads connect the port to places outside the painting. Money changes hands. Families depend upon wages. Businesses depend upon trade. Governments depend upon economies. People arrive and others depart.
Once we begin asking what all those things mean, a harbor stops being simply a collection of attractive shapes.
It becomes evidence of a civilization functioning.
That is one reason Quinquela's La Boca interests me so much.
A beautiful landscape may tell us what a place looked like.
Quinquela tells us what happened there.
The ships, workers, coal, warehouses, cranes, smoke and water belong to one interconnected system. Behind the visible port was Argentina itself: immigration, agriculture, industry, international commerce, transportation, labor and the tremendous transformation of Buenos Aires.
Quinquela painted that history while standing inside it.
Learning to Paint Without Leaving His World Behind
There is another part of his story that fascinates me because it raises the question of influence.
Quinquela did not develop in artistic isolation.
Around 1905 he took his first drawing lessons from a carpenter named Casaburi. In 1907 he entered the artistic circle where he studied under Alfredo Lazzari, an Italian painter who became important to a generation of artists in La Boca. There he encountered a European pictorial inheritance, including ideas associated with Italian painting and the Macchiaioli tradition.
But influence is not copying.
Influence is receiving something, transforming it and eventually passing something different forward.
This is as true of art as it is of migration.
A painter can learn a technique from another country without becoming a copy of the teacher. A culture can receive an architectural language and transform it. A language can adopt foreign words until generations later nobody thinks of them as foreign.
The interesting question is what happens after the encounter.
Quinquela learned from others, but eventually he found a visual language so closely associated with his own experience that his work became immediately connected with La Boca.
His subject had been waiting for him outside.
He only had to return to the port.
His first exhibitions did not immediately place him among Argentina's celebrated painters. He experienced rejection from official salons and participated in the 1914 exhibition of works rejected by the National Salon. But he continued painting the subjects that interested him. In 1918 his first individual exhibition at Galería Witcomb became a major turning point.
Then his world expanded remarkably.
Madrid in 1923. Paris in 1926. New York in 1928. Havana that same year. Rome in 1929. London in 1930. His work entered important collections; in Madrid, Buque en reparación was acquired for the Museo de Arte Moderno, and following his New York exhibition, two works were acquired by the Metropolitan Museum.
The boy from the coal yard had carried the port of La Boca into some of the great cultural capitals of the world.
But he did not abandon the place that had given him his subject.
That decision would eventually make his story much larger than painting.
Knowledge Changes the Image
This is where Quinquela's work intersects with ideas that I developed much later through Eco-symbolism.
I do not mean that Quinquela was an Eco-symbolist. He wasn't. Eco-symbolism belongs to another period and to my own development as an artist.
What I recognize in Quinquela is something that became fundamental to the way I think: an image cannot always be separated from the knowledge surrounding it.
A symbol does not acquire meaning simply because an artist announces, “This represents something.”
Meaning accumulates through experience.
Take a ship.
At its simplest, it is an object constructed to travel through water. But human experience has made the ship much more than its engineering.
A ship can mean immigration because millions of people crossed oceans in one.
It can mean exile to somebody forced from a homeland.
It can mean discovery.
It can mean war.
It can mean commerce because goods moved between civilizations in its hull.
It can mean slavery in another historical context.
It can mean rescue, adventure, escape, colonization or return.
The physical object has not changed.
Knowledge changes the image.
The same is true of the smokestack. At one moment in history it can represent technological achievement, industrial employment and economic expansion. With additional knowledge, it can also raise questions about pollution, health and environmental consequences.
Neither interpretation has to erase the other.
History accumulates.
This is central to what Eco-symbolism means to me. We exist within a fabric of knowledge and experience: geography, history, science, medicine, politics, architecture, economics, migration, language, religion, design, invention, conflict and memory. Pull one thread and another moves.
The image is connected to that fabric.
So are words.
We sometimes forget that the written word itself is a visual symbol.
The marks on this page have no inherent relationship to the sounds you hear in your mind as you read them. Human beings created systems of symbols, assigned meaning to them, combined them into languages and passed them across generations. Those languages continued changing as people migrated, conquered, traded, married, studied and lived alongside one another.
Musical notation performs another extraordinary transformation: marks on a page can preserve instructions for sound.
Mathematical notation can communicate relationships that have no physical voice at all.
A map turns geography into symbols.
An architectural drawing can describe a building that does not yet exist.
We are surrounded by symbols so completely that we often stop noticing them.
Before the Photograph
This relationship between image and knowledge is ancient.
When I think about it, my mind goes all the way back to places such as the caves of Altamira.
People living thousands of years before us painted animals on those surfaces. We can study what remains—the pigments, forms, animals, techniques and placement—but we cannot recover every thought that existed in the minds of the people who made them.
Something survived.
Something else was lost.
That distinction is enormously important.
Human beings have depended upon images to transmit knowledge for much of our history. Tombs, temples, manuscripts, maps, paintings, carvings and monuments have shown later generations how people dressed, hunted, worshipped, worked, fought, traveled, celebrated and imagined their world.
Of course we must be careful. A historical painting is not automatically an objective record. Artists interpret. Patrons influence what gets represented. Victors commission monuments. Governments create propaganda. Religious institutions establish visual conventions.
Context matters.
But interpretation does not make the image historically useless. Quite the opposite: sometimes the interpretation itself tells us something about the society that produced it.
I understood another version of this very early because I came from a scientific and medical family.
My grandfather was a physician. My father was a physician. Medicine continued strongly through my family. Art was not the thing most celebrated around me when I was young.
Yet some of my father's older medical books contained illustrations of anatomy and pathology. Before photography could routinely provide the necessary medical image, someone had to observe what was there and translate that observation through drawing.
Those pictures were not decorations around science.
They carried the science.
Someone's ability to see, understand and draw helped another person learn.
For me, this destroys the artificial wall we sometimes build between art and knowledge.
Observation belongs to both.
Curiosity belongs to both.
Human beings study the world and then invent ways of communicating what they have discovered.
Art has participated in that process for an extraordinarily long time.
The Responsibility of Looking
Perhaps because I grew up between these two worlds—the scientific authority surrounding my family and the artistic world represented so strongly by my grandmother—I developed a stubborn conviction that a painting should give something back to the person who stands in front of it.
That does not mean every painting has to become a history lesson.
It means I don't want the work to end at decoration.
It should provoke curiosity, recognition, emotion, thought, memory or discovery. It can leave a question rather than an answer.
But something has to happen.
My grandmother taught me to begin with the whole composition. From far away, the painting has to hold together. Light and darkness establish the drama before the eye understands every object.
Light and darkness marry and dance.
Then you come closer.
That is where the world inside the painting begins revealing itself.
Quinquela understood that instinctively and physically. His large masses can command attention at a distance, but when we approach, human activity begins breaking through them.
The workers matter.
This is another reason his paintings resist becoming simple port decoration. The port is populated by labor.
There is dignity in making ordinary work worthy of serious painting. I sometimes think of Van Gogh's The Potato Eaters in this respect—not because Quinquela painted like Van Gogh, because he didn't, but because both artists understood that ordinary working people could carry the weight of a major painting.
The history of a country does not happen only in presidential palaces.
It happens in kitchens.
It happens in fields.
It happens in workshops.
And in Quinquela's world, it happened on the docks.
From Witness to Protagonist
If Quinquela had stopped there, his contribution would already have been significant.
But he did something else.
He stepped out of the canvas.
By the 1930s, after achieving international recognition, he began turning his success toward La Boca itself. In 1933 he purchased and donated land for what became the Escuela-Museo Pedro de Mendoza. The school opened in 1936 with murals by Quinquela incorporated into the educational environment. The Museo de Bellas Artes de La Boca opened above it in 1938, and Quinquela established his studio there.
More followed.
Land for a kindergarten. A municipal lactarium. A graphic-arts school for workers. The children's dental institute. His involvement in Caminito. Land for the Teatro de la Ribera, which eventually opened in 1971.
This changes the way I understand him.
“Witness” becomes too passive a word.
Quinquela became a protagonist.
He had painted the neighborhood that formed him, but eventually he used what painting gave him to participate in the neighborhood's future.
There is almost a circle to it.
La Boca formed Quinquela.
Quinquela painted La Boca.
Then Quinquela helped transform La Boca.
The artist and the place became increasingly difficult to separate.
Even the Museo Benito Quinquela Martín today describes his presence as having affected the visual recognition, social bonds and identity of the neighborhood, while the city offers tours specifically examining the transformations associated with Quinquela and other artists.
That is much more than becoming famous.
He became part of the identity of a place.
What Survives?
There is another reason this matters to me.
We tend to imagine history as something complete because history books present it in chapters.
It isn't.
History is full of holes.
Geology gives us a magnificent and humbling example. An unconformity can represent an enormous interval of missing geological time—material was never deposited, or layers that once existed were later eroded away.
The Earth itself has missing pages.
Human history has its own unconformities.
Buildings collapse.
Libraries burn.
Languages disappear.
Documents are deliberately destroyed.
Paintings deteriorate.
Objects are stolen, dispersed or simply thrown away because nobody at that moment understands what they will mean later.
Civilizations disappear and leave fragments from which later generations try to reconstruct an entire world.
Sometimes what survives is monumental: a temple, a pyramid, a carved stone.
Sometimes it is astonishingly fragile: pigment protected for thousands of years inside a cave.
And sometimes it is a painting.
That is why I look differently at Quinquela's port.
His paintings are not substitutes for economic records, photographs, shipping manifests or historical scholarship. They do something those records cannot do in exactly the same way.
They preserve the human sensation of a world he knew.
The congestion.
The movement.
The smoke.
The labor.
The scale of ships against human bodies.
The strange beauty that can exist inside a harsh industrial environment.
And because he lived among the people and conditions he painted, that visual memory carries the authority of experience.
Passing the Torch
My grandmother was part of another generation of that story.
She admired Quinquela, visited La Boca and carried her memory of it into her own painting. She did not become Quinquela. She remained herself.
That matters.
Influence should not erase individuality.
We sometimes speak about originality as though a creative person must emerge from nowhere, untouched by anybody who came before. I don't believe that. Nothing in human civilization works that way.
We learn.
We absorb.
We question.
We reject some things.
We transform others.
Then, if we are fortunate, we add something that belongs to us.
The real competition for an artist is not necessarily with the person painting next door. It is with the limits of your own work and your willingness to discover your unique voice.
Then you can come out of that individual space and participate in something larger.
That is where dialogue becomes important.
It is also one of the great possibilities of migration. People do not need to become identical in order to build something together. They can bring knowledge from different places, exchange it, argue with it, modify it and create something that did not exist in precisely that form before the encounter.
The torch passes, but it does not remain the same torch.
Quinquela was influenced by what came before him.
My grandmother was influenced by Quinquela.
Both influenced something in me.
I do not paint like Quinquela. His influence on me was not a formula for how to make a ship, a sky or a human figure. It was deeper: the conviction that a painting can contain history, that composition has to speak before detail, that darkness and light can carry drama, and that once the viewer comes close, there should be a world waiting.
The purpose matters.
An Age of Infinite Images
We are now facing a strange reversal.
For most of human history, making and reproducing an image required considerable effort.
Today we live inside an avalanche of them.
Millions upon millions of photographs, videos, advertisements, posts and digital images pass before our eyes. Artificial intelligence can now generate sophisticated imagery in seconds.
For an artist, it is reasonable to ask: What happens to us when making an image becomes almost effortless?
I don't think the answer is that creativity has become obsolete.
I think the question has changed.
The ability to manufacture an image is not the same as having something to say.
Perhaps meaning becomes more important when images become easier to produce.
A machine can construct an image of an imaginary harbor.
Quinquela knew what coal felt like.
He knew the workers.
He knew the neighborhood.
He knew the port.
He knew what it meant to leave the coal yard and enter an artistic world that might easily have excluded someone without conventional credentials.
And when success came, he knew where he wanted part of that success to return.
That experience cannot be reduced to style.
It is embedded in the work.
When an Artist Becomes a Place
Benito Quinquela Martín died in 1977 at the age of eighty-six.
But saying that his paintings survived him doesn't quite describe what happened.
La Boca carries him.
Its museum carries him. Its educational institutions carry his history. Caminito carries his intervention. His images continue carrying the port into places far beyond Argentina.
And the paintings carry something that the physical neighborhood alone can no longer give us: the La Boca that existed during his lifetime.
That world changed, as every living place changes.
This is where art becomes memory.
The two Quinquela paintings that hung in my grandmother's home eventually disappeared from our family collection. I don't know where they are today. Perhaps someone else stands in front of them now without knowing that once, many years ago, a little girl in Argentina looked at them from across her grandmother's room.
But something did survive.
My grandmother's admiration survived in the port painting she made.
Her lessons survived in me.
And Quinquela's La Boca survives in his work.
That is the extraordinary journey of an image when it contains more than appearance.
An abandoned child with an uncertain birthday became a coal-yard worker. The worker became an artist. The artist carried his neighborhood into museums and galleries across the world. Then he returned his success to the neighborhood and participated in shaping its cultural future.
Eventually the name of the painter and the identity of the place became intertwined.
Quinquela didn't simply leave paintings of history behind.
He entered history himself.
Benito Quinquela Martín died in 1977 at the age of eighty-six.
But saying that his paintings survived him doesn't quite describe what it means to be a protagonist. He did not merely survive history; he commanded its trajectory. Through his work, the ephemeral sweat of dockworkers was synthesized into an eternal visual language that permanently dictated the structural and cultural habitat of La Boca.
In this age of boundless, effortless digital generation, his legacy acts as an Eco-symbolic anchor. It reminds us that true art cannot be simulated by a machine that has never known the weight of a coal sack or the bite of a winter port wind.
Looking back at the torch passed down from my grandmother, Teresa Somerau, I realize her lesson was not merely about aesthetic perspective. To step across a room—to move from the vast composition to the intimate, breathing detail—is the ultimate responsibility of looking. It is how we discover the human story buried inside the mass of the world. Quinquela left us that world waiting. It is up to us to cross the room.
He documented history because he lived inside it.
Then he did something more.
He became part of the history he had painted.
© By Ana Bikic' & William M. Coulthatd
Contact: miamiartreviews@gmail.com
Where to Find Works by Benito Quinquela Martín
Museo Benito Quinquela Martín
Av. Don Pedro de Mendoza 1835
La Boca, Buenos Aires, Argentina
Official Museum Collection
The museum houses the largest collection of Quinquela Martín’s paintings, etchings, archives, personal objects, former home and studio. (Museo Benito Quinquela Martín)
Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes
Av. del Libertador 1473
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Quinquela Martín Collection
Works include Riachuelo o Regreso de la pesca, Elevadores a pleno sol, Rincón del Riachuelo and Hundimiento del Santos Vega. (Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes)
Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes Neuquén
Mitre y Santa Cruz
Neuquén, Argentina
Hundimiento del Santos Vega
Work: Hundimiento del Santos Vega, 1946. (Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes)
Museo de Artes Plásticas Eduardo Sívori
Av. Infanta Isabel 555
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Reflejos — Quinquela Martín
Work: Reflejos, 1965. (Buenos Aires)
Museo Municipal de Bellas Artes Juan B. Castagnino
Av. Pellegrini 2202
Rosario, Santa Fe, Argentina
Quinquela Martín is documented in the museum collection. (H. Cámara de Diputados)
Museo Provincial de Bellas Artes Rosa Galisteo de Rodríguez
4 de Enero 1510
Santa Fe, Argentina
Quinquela Martín is documented in the museum collection. (H. Cámara de Diputados)
Museo Provincial de Bellas Artes Dr. Pedro E. Martínez
Buenos Aires 355
Paraná, Entre Ríos, Argentina
Quinquela Martín is documented in the museum collection. (H. Cámara de Diputados)
Museo Provincial de Bellas Artes Emiliano Guiñazú – Casa Fader
San Martín 3651
Mayor Drummond, Luján de Cuyo, Mendoza, Argentina
Quinquela Martín is documented in the provincial collection. (H. Cámara de Diputados)
Museo Hispanoamericano Isaac Fernández Blanco / Dámaso Arce Collection references
Olavarría, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
Quinquela Martín is documented among Argentine institutional holdings. (H. Cámara de Diputados)
Museo Emilio Caraffa
Av. Poeta Lugones 411
Córdoba, Argentina
Quinquela Martín — Museo Caraffa Collection (Museo Caraffa)
Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía
Calle de Santa Isabel 52
28012 Madrid, Spain
Benito Quinquela Martín — Reina Sofía Collection
Works: Pleno sol, Arrancando, Buque en reparación, Elevadores. (Museo Reina Sofía)
Museum of Fine Arts, Houston
1001 Bissonnet Street
Houston, Texas 77005, USA
Untitled (Harbor Scene), 1918
Work: Untitled (Harbor Scene), 1918. (MFAH Collections)
Manchester Art Gallery
Mosley Street
Manchester M2 3JL
United Kingdom
Morning Sun, Buenos Aires
Work: Morning Sun, Buenos Aires, 1930. (Manchester Art Gallery)
National Museum Cardiff / Amgueddfa Cymru
Cathays Park
Cardiff CF10 3NP
Wales, United Kingdom
Labour in the Sun
Work: Labour in the Sun. (Museum Wales)
Glynn Vivian Art Gallery
Alexandra Road
Swansea SA1 5DZ
Wales, United Kingdom
Work associated with the collection: Working at High Pressure. (Wikidata)
National Football Museum
Urbis Building
Cathedral Gardens
Manchester M4 3BG
United Kingdom
Work associated with the collection: Rincón de La Boca. (Wikidata)
Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa
55 Cable Street
Wellington 6011
New Zealand
Work associated with the collection: After the Rain. (Wikidata)
Te Whare o Rehua Sarjeant Gallery
38 Taupo Quay
Whanganui 4500
New Zealand
Work associated with the collection: Filling the Casting. (Wikidata)
Dunedin Public Art Gallery / historic Dunedin collection
30 The Octagon
Dunedin 9016
New Zealand
Quinquela’s own 1930 British exhibition archive documents works sold into museum collections in Dunedin and New Zealand. (Museo Benito Quinquela Martín)
Sheffield Museums / Graves Gallery
Surrey Street
Sheffield S1 1XZ
United Kingdom
Quinquela’s archive records a work entering a Sheffield museum collection following his 1930 British exhibition. (Museo Benito Quinquela Martín)
Caminito, La Boca
Caminito
La Boca, Buenos Aires, Argentina
Quinquela Martín was central to the transformation and artistic identity of Caminito and La Boca. (Buenos Aires)
Casa Museo Benito Quinquela Martín
Av. Don Pedro de Mendoza 1835
La Boca, Buenos Aires, Argentina
Located within the Museo Benito Quinquela Martín complex; former home and studio of the artist, with paintings and personal objects. (Buenos Aires)
Quinquela Martín Digital Archive and Collection
Museo Benito Quinquela Martín
Av. Don Pedro de Mendoza 1835
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Digital Collection and Archive
Includes paintings, documents, photographs, exhibition archives and records of his international career. (Museo Benito Quinquela Martín)
Historic international museum destinations documented in Quinquela Martín’s own archive: Museo Nacional de Gales, Museo de Arte de Sheffield, Museo de Manchester, Dunedin collections, Otago/New Zealand collections, Museo de Luxemburgo, Museo de Arte Moderno in Rome, Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, and institutions connected with his exhibitions in Madrid, Paris, Rio de Janeiro and London. (Museo Benito Quinquela Martín)
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