Welcome to Paradise

Life is sustained by repeating rhythms. It is like a frame built of predictable elements whose structures keep the weight of the days in balance. This inherent arrangement that we are part of without realizing it affords us security and shelter. Habit creates routine, an automatism that helps us establish a social space for coexistence and comfort. We know how to act at all times, where to find what interests us, how to reach the places where we get along well and who is part of our immediate context. We operate by coordinates. If we stop to think about it, the most remarkable thing about everyday life is that most of the time nothing unusual happens. We are, we live. The weight of what we are lies in those ordinary details that go unnoticed, transparent minutiae that we rarely observe but that constitute us as individuals. The nature that binds us beyond races, languages or beliefs - that universal degree of understanding and need we possess as human beings - grows each day in those common places we share. Virtually the same things happen to all of us, but in different ways. The mechanisms of our vital zig-zag are activated and driven by identical situations and conducts. This fact goes unnoticed as something unsubstantial, but when observed with quiescence, it has an incalculable value: its revealing authenticity. As the French philosopher, Henri Lefebvre, notes, “the human world is not defined simply by the historical, by culture or totality or society as a whole or by ideological and political superstructures. It is defined by this intermediate and mediating level: everyday life.” ¹

This assertion, which champions the vicissitudes of that which is apparently mundane, entails the proposal of a contradiction in that it is at the same time a solution and also a trap. Foresight is a highway toward certainty, the kind that offers us tranquility and affection, but also an underlying layer prone to dissatisfaction. If we move only within the predictable, if we are capable of knowing beforehand much of what surrounds us, if we close the circle too tightly and accept the disputes involved in this monotonous rhythm, we end up trapped in a spiral that affects us emotionally. Faced with the lack of motivation and engulfed by this repetitive calm, we need to distract ourselves and create incentives, so we invent fictitious expectations that give flight to our imaginations. This is a way of convincing ourselves that there is a way out and that places exist that we can aspire to. The further away and more different they are, the better. The goal is to disconnect and leave our strings and restraints behind. If need be, we may even start anew, leaving behind the loads accumulated or the mistakes made. 

The assumption of this recurring idea of flight, related to a yearned-for Paradise, is no doubt a modern invention, an idea that has taken shape in the collective imagination decade after decade, generation after generation, since the late 18th century. The factor that triggered the change toward a new society was the industrialization and mechanization of production methods, a radical turn of events that gradually shifted life from the countryside to the city, an unprecedented scenario in which the framework for the contemporary world would be established, much more advanced and full of opportunities but also more alienating and deterministic. In a short time, these vivacious urban centers changed radically, growing at a dizzying pace and absorbing increasing numbers of people. Within this evolving context, certain ways of life died out and others emerged with strength, the circulation of images prompted by the newly invented technique of photography and the stories made popular thanks to the written press became the underlying medium that sparked people's imaginations and stirred them to dream of unknown landscapes and adventures in remote places. Thus, a vague idea was created of this original, wild but tranquil, Eden, often bathed in year-round sun and with pristine beaches. Almost always, inhabited by innocent natives willing to collaborate with the reasoning of civilization to rise up out of their primitive status. This is the reinterpretation of Arcadia, with its glorified Antiquity, which would become popular again in the Renaissance, an idyllic place where ataraxia, simple customs and comfortable peace reigned. A place surrounded by pastoral landscapes where people spend their days in harmony with Nature, without being subject to any oppression or hardship. 

Gradually, the paradigm of Paradise became linked to the remote islands of the Pacific. Literally, the flip side of the West. More than twenty thousand tiny islands and atolls scattered across the largest body of water in the world, an infinite area christened by Vasco Nuñez de Balboa in 1513 as the ‘South Seas’. This distant and attractively enigmatic territory, the borders of which were impossible to define with precision “takes shape and solidifies in the minds of European explorers before the first waves of missionaries and settlers confirmed, with their subsequent accounts, the ingredients of this vast oceanic space that their predecessors had formed. Those who devoted themselves to recording their insights and adventures in that remote corner of the world followed a well-memorized script in doing so, one that varied considerably depending on the period and social context they came from and finding, in sum, what they were determined to find. Those who reached the islands were not disappointed by the geography of the land, which, of course, met all the requirements for the myth of Paradise, or by the traits of the population, which marched before them wearing the alternating masks of nobility or perversion that they themselves had given them, thus confirming the preconceived theories and ideas reflected in literature, even when they set out to contradict them”.²

The first myth related to survival on the sea is ‘Robinson Crusoe’ (1719) by Daniel Defoe. The book is considered the first English adventure novel, able to create its own sub-genre: castaways, with a broad following in both print and film. It quickly became a popular tale that would spark readers' fantasy and transform the idea of survival in remote regions under adverse conditions into a possible, even stimulating, situation. The musings on the good savage forwarded by Rousseau's theories also helped spread the notion that we become corrupt when we are socialized and therefore happiness is easier for man in a previous state. Likewise, this moral dichotomy also awakened the interest of Diderot, who, inspired by the descriptions of Tahiti made by Louis Antoine de Bougainville in ‘Voyage Around the World’ (1771), wrote a philosophical text reflecting on two opposing perspectives for understanding life and human love. On the one hand, rational Parisian conduct, and on the other, the option of being free in harmony with Nature. Bougainville's memoirs about his stay on Tahiti, which he called New Cythera, as a tribute to the island of Aphrodite in classical mythology, had a strong impact in intellectual circles: “the description he was able to make of his travel experience introduced a different and natural world to the Western culture of his era, where one sensed the truth of that idea of happiness that was such an obsession in the 18th century and which civilized people like him could no longer forget afterwards.”³ Interestingly, the construction of the recollection of his journey owes more to the author's fantasy than to reality. His descriptions are not aseptic, nor do they examine what he finds with rigor or methodology; quite the contrary, they are fed by subjective judgements based on a mysterious land that excited his senses and his perception of things. In a similar fashion, other early expeditions that arrived at these remote locations also praise their marvelous virtues, such as the case of the scientific fleet of the ship called the Endeavour commanded by James Cook, which reached Tahiti in 1769 with the aim of observing and measuring the transit of Venus. For long-suffering European explorers used to cold, inclement weather and a harsh life of sacrifice in their homelands or on the high seas, these bright beaches were a dream come true. 

After the mass arrival of millions and millions of emigrants to America in the 19th century, the remote islands of the South Pacific became the last truly undiscovered spot on earth, the final frontier. Their remoteness and the difficulty in reaching them make Polynesia a fabled place, a desideratum fueled by legends that have become rooted over the years in the unconscious of advanced societies. Their constant sublimation acts like a magnet for eager writers, who bolster the depiction of an increasingly chimerical region with their marvelous experiences and stories, always halfway between truth and fiction. So much so that it ends up becoming a euchronia. Such is the case with Herman Melville, who, in ‘Typee’ (1846), narrates his own captivity when he was captured by a man-eating tribe on the island of Nuku Hiva, the largest in the archipelago of the Marquesas. Most of the story is auto-biographical, but the author takes a great deal of poetic license, giving free rein to inventiveness in the passages he considers more routine. He coincides with previous narrators in highlighting the pleasures and temptations of the islands, especially in relation to the beauty and sweetness of the vahines, which he describes as young women of tan skin, delicate features, graceful figures and suggestive movements. Undoubtedly, this erotic myth of primitive sensuality is also highly persuasive to those who are tempted by this tangible Eden. 

In the summer of 1888, weakened by endless health problems, Robert Louis Stevenson decided to set off for Honolulu in search of a mild climate to aid in healing his incessant ailments. After an extensive cruise around the islands, he settled on Samoa, where he bought some property and would spend the final years of his life, convinced that his body would not resist the harsh winters of his native Scotland. He built a house in Vailima, inland from Apia, on the slopes of Mount Vaea, near where his grave is now located. Due to his fondness for adventure, he had always been attracted to the idea of traveling this part of the world, so it makes an appropriate ending for a wandering writer moved by a thirst for the unexpected. The texts from this period, compiled under the title of ‘In the South Seas’ (1893), compose a detailed description of landscapes and people, a meticulous journal that narrates with sober style countless details of aboriginal life, which he observes with a humanistic sense and anthropological viewpoint. A decade later, Jack London would also journey to this idealized neck of the woods. His perspective of the situation is different, harsher. In his stories, there are no winners or losers, and irony and skepticism, and even criticism of the abuse suffered by the natives, prevail. His almost cinematographic way of narrating affords an intense depiction of the flip side of that which is extolled in postcards: a place with harsh Nature where cannibal tribes mingle with slave traffickers. The central figures of his ‘South Sea Tales’ (1911) are self-made men, seasoned sailors or resigned natives who endure as best they can their savage background and imposed civilization. For nineteenth-century travel writers, this final frontier provided fertile ground for combining life and work, for singing the praises of a backdrop riddled with unanswered questions, the pastoral image of which attracted the likes of the disillusioned and unbelieving.

The depiction of a supposedly still accessible earthly Paradise fed into the imperialistic mentality of that period and took the shape of stereotypes that were strengthened through the magnification made possible by this popular literature. This is seen in the world expositions that could be visited in one's leisure time in the city, which are an ethnographic invention where the latest discoveries and technological advances are on display along with exotic rarities brought from overseas, including people of other races. Of course, these made-up sets with native flora, fauna and constructions are what sparked the greatest interest amongst the affluent audience, which took its knowledge about the world beyond Europe from this imitation. The format requires superiority and, as Ana María Guash reminds us “there, the entire world pretended to materialize without entailing any risk whatsoever for the visitors, who observed this staging of otherness as one who contemplates a painting, comfortable in the position of privilege that the Western gaze grants the viewer.”⁴ Paul Gauguin, in a letter written to Émile Bernard, reveals that his image of the South Seas is, precisely, the result of propaganda about French settlements in Oceania that he had seen at the Exposition Universelle of Paris in 1889. Although this event is remembered in posterity for a symbol such as the Eiffel Tower, that oversized iron construction that would, over time, become the most recognizable symbol of the capital, during the months in which the expo lasted what really caught the attention of the visitors was Le Village Nègre, a village of 400 natives in which live humans in captivity were displayed in a recreation of their natural habitat. 

Juan Antonio Ramírez clearly explains the attraction for the exotic in that period: “the widespread opinion that this yearning for that which is remote takes on a special bias in the late 19th century can be accepted. It is a crucial time in the history of colonialism, when certain European states finish sharing out the African continent and take possession of significant pieces of Oceania, Asia and America. Then, an ambivalent process of undervaluing and idealizing these colonies is triggered, given that, while on the one hand, there was a need to justify the intervention there by forwarding the familiar thinking that civilizing action was taking place, on the other, it was also deemed important to attract colonists from the metropolis with the implicit bait of their being able to live in an idyllic setting, untarnished by moral and material restrictions.”⁵

Before reaching Papeete in June 1991, Paul Gauguin had attempted to flee from the West by going to Martinique. Although this first sojourn in the Tropics ended poorly, since, after numerous vicissitudes, he was forced to return home in a few short months, it represents a groundbreaking moment, as he was fascinated by the exuberance of the landscape. In Tahiti, his initial impression is disappointment: he feels he has landed too late in a Europeanized world in the process of disappearing, so he decides to leave the city to settle in Mataiea, which was at that time a five-hour ride in covered wagon from the capital of French Polynesia. Once there, he becomes immersed in the place and its people, and even lives together with a young native woman who poses for him. During a short period of time, he finds the Eden he had yearned for, but need prompts him to return to Paris two years later. He had been highly prolific during this period and his new work generated a great amount of expectation when exhibited to the public, but it was not well understood. He roused admiration in literary circles and many writers talked about him; however, among the painters, only Degas was able to admire his work. Monet and Renoir felt it was simply poor. Camille Pissarro attempted to explain to him that this type of art did not belong to him, that he was someone civilized, rather than a savage.⁶ Despite his efforts and the enthusiasm he showed, he returned to Oceania disappointed and feeling like he had failed. Aged, ill, alone and fighting against adversity on a daily basis, he did some of his best work these years. Before he died in 1903, he set out on a new adventure on the Marquesas Islands, injected with a final surge of enthusiasm. 

Gauguin's fame is based on this final decade of his life, a brief interval that made him one of the most widely followed artists of the first half of the 20th century precisely because he represented the opposite of that which was urban and affluent, official and academic. The search for primitive nature loaded with ancestral myths, the incessant escape toward the unknown, the break from earlier canons and the free use of color to represent the light of the Antipodes all construct a very lively vision that, since then, has conditioned Modernity's view of the exotic. “Much of Gauguin's posthumous reputation is based on the work he did in Tahiti. His personality also became a part of his subsequent cult following. The idea of the artist considered a genius who works on the fringe of Western culture in an attempt to create a more pure art without resorting to the conventionalisms of realism gained interest when Gauguin was branded as the precursor of Expressionism.”⁷ In fact, since then, primitivism has become one of the paths of modern art. For the members of Die Brücke, the retrospective on Gauguin organized by the Dresden Museum in 1910 was crucial. Indeed, the group's members and those close to them were keen visitors of ethnographic collections and this show reasserted their faith in unpolluted cultures. Those who could even ventured to make a pilgrimage when they had the chance. In 1913, Emil Nolde traveled to the South Seas, having joined an expedition of ophthalmologists that were going to study Maori diseases in the regions of Papua-New Guinea, at that time a German protectorate. Similarly, when World War I broke out, Max Pechstein also made a journey to these distant lands. 

Perhaps the most unique case of Gauguin's admirers is that of Henri Matisse, who disembarked in Tahiti in 1930. On this voyage, he was unable to paint because of an ailment that prevented him from straining his arm, so he occupied himself by closely observing the light and purchasing hand-woven cloth decorated with simple motifs. Born into a family of weavers, his sensitivity toward these materials was evident. To capture what caught his interest, he bought a camera and devoted himself to taking pictures of birds in flight, the sea and the sky. He focused in particular on the leaves and contrasts in the foliage. Upon his return home, he created his first large textile designs and began to use cut-outs. Many of the shapes that he took in on this voyage overseas are reflected afterwards. His capacity for synthesis is surprising: with minimal elements he manages to communicate many sensations captured. Not, however, with the vehemence and impulsiveness of the Expressionists but rather with the subtlety and precision of a visionary.

There is a paradox inherent to this escape toward the unknown, which is none other than understanding that it is the limits of colonial expansion that are reached, not unexplored territory. Indeed, when Gauguin traveled to Polynesia he found a perverted ecosystem that exacerbated his imagination, highlighting what he considered to be native and silencing any foreign effect that distorted his preconceived notion of what he had expected to find. In the end, he reconstructed a made-up image, which he broadcasted as authentic and which permeated artistic imagery. At that time, painting had inherited from travel literature its strong evocative potential, later taken over by photography and film to decisively condition our perception of the world. Specifically, illustrated magazines would become one of the visual references of the 20th century, reaching prints runs of millions of copies in Germany, France, England and the United States. This global dissemination mechanism is based on the photo essay, a direct introduction to remote places that gives us detailed information about idealized locations. The prime example of such publications was Life magazine, which reached its peak in the '40s and '50s. A Spanish edition was even published (Life en español, 1952-1969) for Latin America, which could also be purchased in Spain. In March 1957, they published an extensive article titled Grandes aventuras: viaje romántico a los mares del sur [Great Adventures: Romantic Voyage on the South Seas], which showed (in full color) pastoral views and dream-like scenes of the different island chains of Polynesia. 

The first person to film scenes on the islands of the South Pacific in order to make a movie proposal was Robert J. Flaherty, an American mining engineer turned explorer and director who in 1922 had presented ‘Nanuk’, a pioneering documentary about the customs and ways of life of the Eskimos. The positive response to the full-length film in Europe prompted Paramount to fund a two-year trip to Samoa, where he devoted himself to a project titled ‘Moana’(1925), about a local native couple. The main attraction for Western audiences was seeing landscapes, people and ways of life that were diametrically opposed to their own. After signing with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer to continue developing films in this genre, the work began to take on more commercialized overtones, to Flaherty's dismay. He had the utmost respect for the people and their culture and preferred not to make up stories or include famous stars, but rather to go wherever the circumstances led him. Therefore, even though he already had quite a bit of material on film, he decided to drop the two projects he had agreed on with the producer, leaving them unfinished. ‘White Shadows in the South Seas’ (1928) was finished by W. S. Van Dyke. ‘Tabu’ (1931), filmed on Tahiti and Bora Bora, was the last movie made by F. W. Murnau before he died in a car accident at the age of 42. 

From then on, Hollywood took hold of this entire post-colonial Polynesian imagery to create stereotypes that would be attractive for the audience. On the one hand, it resorted to simple melodramatic productions starring celebrities such as Elvis Presley (‘Blue Hawaii’, 1961); and on the other, it recreated stories about handsome white adventurers who landed on pristine beaches full of palm trees, brave sailors who decisively take control in a conflict and end up winning over the lovely vahine, who always turns out to be the daughter of a generous tribal chief. Such is the case of Mutiny on the Bounty’ (1935), starring Clark Gable, which won the Oscar for Best Picture that year. The 1962 remake of the film marked a before and after in the life of Marlon Brando, entrusted with playing the role of the charismatic young captain Fletcher in this second version. As in the story, the actor fell in love with a young native woman, Tarita Teriipia, who would become his third wife. Not only that, but his fascination was so strong and he was so captivated by the beauty of this land, that he decided to buy the Tetiaroa atoll to turn it into his private refuge. 

With the stability offered by the new world order at the end of World War II, the economic rebound in advanced countries and the development of a culture of leisure prompted the emergence of an affluent middle class that could afford to travel and experience things first-hand that were previously inconceivable. Tourism would exploit this need to feel emotions by taking advantage of the expectations generated by each zone or symbol-city. Clearly, its mission is to strengthen presumed clichés up to the point of consolidating a standard image of each place. Thus, travel agencies make the South Seas a destination associated with tranquility, disconnecting, sun, relaxation and pleasure. For the stressed-out workers of Europe or North America, used to the cold and rain, an idyllic resort where they can regain strength and rejoice in Eden. Undoubtedly, the opposite of everyday life, a break from everything that distresses us. “The fact that experiences are currently in demand actually comes from a more or less unconscious will to break with the mundane. The search for something different is the result of consumer society, of the growing role of emotions, the existence of intangibles... Unconsciously, what attracts us to a tourist destination before visiting it is the interest or curiosity in that culture. However, what pushes us to get up and go to that place is something more profound than interest, it is the will to flee from daily life.” It is interesting to see how, several centuries later, the desire to escape felt by the Romantics remains intact, but somehow reconverted by an industry specialized in taking care of managing our free time. Now, it is no longer so much a search for oneself through otherness and an introduction to other societies and sceneries, but rather an exercise in distraction (and momentary bliss) which feeds a substitute for happiness with its illusion.

 

 1 Lefebvre, H. ‘Foundations for a Sociology of the Everyday’. Critique of Everyday Life, p. 45. Anagrama. Barcelona, 1973.

 2 Fresno Calleja, P. Travesías Literarias en el Pacífico: de los Mares del Sur a la Nueva Oceanía. P. 3. Online Publications of the University of Barcelona. BELLS, 13, 2004.

 3 Bestard, J. El viaje de la filosofía. ‘Viaje a Tahití’. P. 8. José J. de Olañeta, publisher. Palma, Majorca, 1999.

 4 Guash, A. M. ‘Contra el mapa: disturbios en la geografía colonial de Occidente’. P. 69. Editorial Siruela. Madrid, 2008.

 5 Ramírez, J. A. ‘El objeto y el aura’. P. 73-74. Ediciones Akal. Madrid, 2009.

 6 Cachin, F. ‘Gauguin, ese salvaje a mi pesar’. P. 95. Editorial Aguilar. Madrid, 1991.

 7 Stevenson, L. ‘Gauguin?. P. 21. Editorial Libsa. Madrid, 1992.