In 1994, Susan Sontag wrote in Transforming Vision — Writers On Art, edited by Edward Hirsch, on The Disasters of War by Francisco.
“The images are relentless, unforgiving. That is, they do not forgive us—who are merely being shown, but do not live in the house of pain. The images tell us we have no right not to pay attention to pay attention to the crimes of this order which are taking place right now. And the captions—mingling the voices of the murders, who think of themselves as warriors, and the lamenting artist-witness—mutter and wail. The problem is despair. For it is not simple that this happened: Zaragoza, Chinchon, Madrid (1808-13). It is happening Vucovar, Mostar, Srebrenica, Srebrenica, Stupni Do, Sarajevo (1991– ).” Note: The images and captions are meant to awaken, shock, rend. Yet the list of wars continues with Ukraine.
“Here in the words of some of the captions is what they show:
One cannot look at this. This is bad. This is how it happened. This always happens . There is not one to help them. With or without reason. He defends himself well. He deserved it. Bury them snd keep them quiet. There was nothing to be done and he died. What madness! This is too much! Why? Nobody knows why. Not in this case either. This is worse. Barbaria This is the absolute worst! It will be the same. All this and more. The same thing elsewhere. Perhaps they are of another breed. I see it. And this too. Truth has died. This is the truth.”
Artist Painting In Sabino Canyon — Photo-Artistry by kenne
In The Beauty Created By Others
Only in the beauty created by others is their consolation, in the music of others and in others’ poems. Only others save us, even through solitude tastes like opium. The others are not hell, if you see them early, with their foreheads pure, cleansed by dreams. That is why I wonder what word should be used, “he’ or “you.” Every “he” is a betrayal of a certain “you” but in return someone else’s poem offers the fidelity of a sober dialogue.
Poetry summons us to life, to courage in the face of the growing shadow. Can you gaze calmly at the Earth like the perfect astronaut?
Our of harmless indolence, the Greece of books, and the Jerusalem of memory there suddenly appears the island of a poem, unpeopled; some new Cook will discover it one day.