Agustín de Foxá (Madrid, 1906-1959) was a Spanish aristocrat and diplomat best known for a novel openly hostile to the Second Spanish Republic, Madrid, de corte a checa (1938). The book that interests us here, however, is another: Por la otra orilla (1955), in which he paints a nostalgic and paternalistic view –very typical of that era– of Latin America. I own the first edition of this collection of chronicles published by Ediciones de Cultura Hispánica, with a cover that inevitably evokes the aesthetic of the NO-DO (the book, by the way, cost 80 pesetas in 1955; it was very expensive). Abstracting from the cloying adjective of some passages, as well as the underlying ideology, it is a generally interesting and well-written work.In Foxá, Hispanic America seems to him, in general, a space of cultural continuity, a “bother world” where Spain has left a deep mark and, at the same time, has received influences that have also transformed it. His descriptions combine imperial nostalgia, aesthetic fascination, and the search for an exoticism that aims to be effective and is often expressed through poetic prose. Foxá observes the New World as an inverted mirror: a territory where Spanish history has taken unexpected paths. Throughout its 526 pages, this perspective, characteristic of the Francoist mentality and the texts published by Ediciones de Cultura Hispánica, tends to idealize the colonial past, presenting it as a civilizing and sentimental bond, but in Foxá's case, without entirely shying away from the most problematic parts previously sugarcoated. On page 437 ("El cenote sagrado"), he even relativizes, for example, the issue of human sacrifices in Mexico, which was quite problematic in the midst of national-Catholicism.
The recent statements by Isabel Díaz Ayuso on the identity of Mexico – in which she suggested that country lives “obsesse with” Spain or that its national project is built “against Hispanidad”– are, on the other hand, inscribed in a polarized and reactive contemporary political register. Also very undocumented. This discourse does not stem from a diplomatic or literary experience, as in the case of Foxá, but from an internal cultural battle within the Spanish state, where Hispanidad is claimed as a distinctive ideological brand. While Foxá described Latin America from an equivocal and condescending perspective, Ayuso does so from a combative and bitter, hard nationalism, using Mexico as a symbol in a debate that is actually domestic about identity and memory where everything is ridiculously decontextualized; she doesn't know what she's talking about.The fundamental difference lies in the function of both discourses. Foxá wanted to create a seductive historical recreation, turning Hispanic America into a colorful and fascinating literary space. His narrative is genuinely Francoist, but at least it seeks emotional connection and the idea of a shared destiny, even if it's through beatings (which he himself admits, albeit in a muted way). Ayuso, on the other hand, wants to intervene in the present with outbursts: her words have nothing to do with Mexico, but with the mobilization of the most extreme Spanish electorate. Where Foxá sees a nuanced Mexico – the beauty of the landscape, pre-Columbian monuments, mestizo vitality – Ayuso only detects a not-so-docile political actor who questions the most worn-out Spanish narrative and must be responded to aggressively. They also diverge in their treatment of the colonial past. Foxá presents it as a cultural epic, an adventure that has generated, in his opinion, hybrid and beautiful worlds. He tends to depoliticize the undeniable colonial violence, but at least he doesn't entirely hide it. Ayuso, on the other hand, does not speak of the past to describe or recreate it, but to defend it against contemporary criticisms: everything is aimed at denying or minimizing historical responsibilities in a global context where colonial legacies are increasingly subject to severe review. Foxá fantasizes about bridges that never existed; Ayuso simply digs trenches in the form of untimely declarations. And while Foxá contemplates America with the eyes of the alcoholic and decadent aristocrat he was, Ayuso looks at it as the leader of a party, the PP, which is in the hands of the extreme right of Vox. The imperial nostalgia of Agustín de Foxá interests me as little as that of Isabel Díaz Ayuso. In any case, I consider it very significant (and very worrying) that the mentality of a fascist writer from the 20th century seems more – let's say – reasonable than that of a democratic representative from the 21st century like Ayuso. All of this clearly indicates where we are heading, and it's frightening.
