Born in Cuba in 1970, Hernández moved to Europe in 2003 and currently lives and works between Havana and Düsseldorf

Solos

Museums: Selected works 1996/2010 Solo exhibition at Galerie Michael Wiesehöfer

“REVANTGARDE” by Anke Kempkes n the 1990s Diango Hernández started an extended series of drawings which processed the political and economical crisis of Cuba after the collapse of the socialist systems in Eastern Europe. ’We lost the last support of the Sowiet Union, which meant confronting a big crisis. We knew about Perestroika and everyone was concerned: What was the political mistake? But the big confusion over the rising ecomomical crisis was soon predominanting. And then, inevetably, the daily life was taken over by the struggle for survival. (…) At the same time I began to make this big mass of drawings out of what was my personal point of view of the crisis. I did self-portraits, illusionary architectures and cities, projects which are never going to be realised.’ Coming from a backgorund of industrial design Diango Hernández formed the collaboration Gabinete Ordo Amoris with his friend Francis Acea. The artists collected everyday objects which were provisionally produced out the last resources people could get hold of. These objects were astonishing creations and they were the manifestation of a highly independent and individual reaction towards the broad circumstances of devastating poverty. IF THEY TAKE THE LIGHT AWAY I’ LL INVENT SOMETHING TO LIGHT MY HOUSE “These objects, pragmatic and strangely sculptural, had a special melancholic beauty, – they were products of a moment of dramatic transition’. Diango Hernández recognised their importance documenting a very particular chapter in Cuban social history. But the cheer anthropological activity of collecting seemed not to be satisfactory for his artistic sensibility and his understanding of the role an artists could take in this process. In his eyes a far more adequate tool, the activity of drawing functioned for Hernández as a political diary and positioned the artist in accordance with the new urban productivity which grew out of the daily needs. His artistic practice resonnated the perception of the crisis. ‘I was acting artistically out of a collective consciousness. Havana was a backdrop, a big landscape of mistakes. (…) I did it at home late at night and of course I could not tell this to anybody. In a modest and quiet way I began to comment on circumstances, places, opinions that poeple have. (…) They were hidden in my place without exposure which was actually in a way also a living condition of each of us. You can see some flashes from outside but what is really counting is what is happening inside. And it was happening in every family in every place. My practice was a document – writing, commenting, drawing -, the most sophisticated strategy for me.’ ARTE ES REVOLUCION In his drawings Hernández transformed the objects from the street into utopian configurations. They gain a new life of their own, morphing into numerous possibilities of self-structuring. Often these biting sceneries imply a self-portrait. Depicted in deliberately naive ways which remind of Chagall or Picasso, the face of the artist is suddenly attached to the body of a horse or another creature of a kind, chimeras carrying a mission, using the disguise of the animal as a subversive strategy. Hernández regarded himself at this point as a medium of the political constellation surrounding him, while it became equally important to him to stage his individual position and emotionality right in the center of the little universe he created in his obsessive ‚automatistically’ produced body of drawings. In actual fact he started to call his entire practise „drawing“, be it a complex installation, a sculpture or an accidental trace on a piece of paper. PASSION IS THE MOST SUBVERSIVE BEHAVIOR IN CAPITALISM BE SURE BEFORE BEING SURE BE LOST BEFORE BEING LOST BE IN LOVE BEFORE BEIG IN LOVE ‘After a while I had thousands of drawings in my house and I decided to come to Europe. Now I had something to say about what is a circumstance. It was a big testing to present them in the European context. They were not exotic items, no phantasy, rather they belong to a specific social history.’ However politically invested these drawings are, there is always this other phantastic side to them. Hernández’ iconography subtly relates here back to the narrative inventions of Cuban writer Alejo Carpentier. In his manifesto on The Marvelous Real (Lo real maravilloso) from 1949 Carpentier rejected the ‚pointless’ imagination of the Surrealists for not being rooted enough in reality. For him the tropics with all there exotism, erotism and anti-colonial struggles constitute the ideal surreal imagination. MORE TROPI CALS REVOLUTIONS In his novel The Kingdom of This World Carpentier re-enacts the time of Haiti’s liberation from French colonialist rule, a period of unsurpassed brutality, horror, and superstition. The ancient slave Ti-Noel becomes the key-figure, the leader of an a new type of guerrilla, escaping his prosecution by transforming with the help of voodoo into the bodies of different animals. HOW COULD EXIST DEMOCRACY IF WE ARE SLAVES Diango Hernández’ use of romantic and phantastic motifs in his drawings is an attempt to formulate and enable a new position in contemporary art which owes a lot to the specific political and historical background he comes from. The disturbing presence of the conventional, icons of beauty and desire in his works are propositions for a future which is open to a strong imagination also in the realm of the political. ‘These works are subversive in a subtle way, because there is beauty implied in each of them. And I really like to keep it as a key for making communication possible through them. I am not interested in inventing something new, in pursuing a style or trend. I use the existing languages of art, through which something can then be read. In my opinion it does not make sense anymore to work in avantgardist categories. Particularly when it comes to architecture and urban structures artists tend to take it on as a language of the contemporary. I once choose the term ‚revantgarde’ to define my practice. Of course, it’s a risk ...

Losing you tonight: Flying Memories Solo booth at FIAC, Paris with Galerie Michael Wiesehöfer, Cologne

tories about Loss in Darkness by Eva Schmidt. Found furniture, found images and found texts are relics with the power to conjure memories. Functioning as a communicative link between the artist and the viewer, they represent both material and tool for Diango Hernández; he uses them to construct his poetic narratives expressing mourning and loss. Diango Hernández views the museum as a dark and lonely place: the rooms here are filled with enchantment, enigma and ambiguities, with mysterious found objects arranged for the solitary viewer who wanders between the eras, beyond factual reality and yet inseparably connected to it by negation, by severance. Born in 1970, Hernández grew up on Cuba and studied industrial design in Havana at the beginning of the nineties. A short time later, however, he realised that what really interested him was artistic work – solitary work that no one had asked him to do. In those years, as we all know, the world’s political blocks crumbled and Cuba’s trade relations with the Soviet Union collapsed. “Special Period” was the term coined for this new epoch, in the hope that the economic crisis would prove exceptional rather than lasting. Times of radical change tend to sharpen our observation; the ability to interpret inconspicuous details becomes necessary, so that we can comprehend changes and new circumstances. Everyday objects – and functional, technical and decorative furnishings and fittings – unfold magical powers in times of transition. For those who can read them, they represent the material from which stories can be woven – personal stories that may reveal more of the truth than official pronouncements. The starting point of the exhibition Losing You Tonight is the memory of an event in Diango Hernández’s life: for the artist, the violent death of one of his fellow pupils just before school graduation threw a lot into question. Some weeks later, Hernández found a short text written by that boy; it was about his first encounter with art, in a very specific place, the museum in Havana. There, reality – according to the description in this text – was completely invalidated in a huge sense of timelessness. Hernández associates the memory of his friend’s death and the finding of this text with recollections of a school system that left little scope for the development of individuality. He takes up these various threads to weave a story using the means of art. He combines ideas about everyday representation, about the differing presence of official ideology in private and public spheres – and about the darkness in which objects disappear to make room for immense emptiness. Hernández has created a series of atmospheric spaces for the exhibition Losing You Tonight, conceptualizing darkness and the disappearance of the present into memory in an enigmatic way; spaces in which the borders between fiction and reality are blurred. He also asked friends who are curators and theorists to write a short, personal story triggered by the idea of darkness. They continue Diango Hernández’s own working method, weaving a personal and open view of the darkness from which dreams emerge. ...

Losing you tonight Solo exhibition curated by Eva Schmidt at Museum for Contemporary art Siegen

“Tropical Gypsy (The museum of silence)” by Diango Hernández omeone said “silence” and I wished that I could float so as not to hear my footsteps.  Standing next to one of the many doors of the museum, the watch-woman wore a white blouse and a blue skirt.  She did her job in uniform, with austerity and visible exhaustion.  While I, entranced, ran through each line of “The Jungle” from Wilfredo Lam, I thought of the silence that this woman must practice every day, and from this idea of silent labor my thoughts quickly moved to the silence that inhabits the museum, and seconds later to real silence.  Silence is not the absence of sounds but what we keep quiet.  In silence I visited the white exhibition halls of the National Museum of Fine Arts of La Havana. It was my first visit to the museum which later became the house of my first love, with whom I am still madly in love. The National Museum of Fine Arts of La Havana is located in Old Havana, the district that was once the center of La Havana and is now the most touristic area of the city and even of all Cuba. As a child what attracted my attention the most in Old Havana was not the museum but the ruins of a wall that appeared on either corner of its surroundings. Later I learned that La Havana was once surrounded by a great wall and that at nine o’clock at night a cannon was shot from the fortress to alert Havana’s residents that the city gates would close. To this day, every night at nine o’clock, the shot can still be heard. “El cañonazo de las nueve” or “The Nine O’Clock Shot”, as it is popularly known, has become an Havana tradition as well as a touristic spectacle. However, for me it is an official ritual which testifies to the permanent confinement and isolation of our beautiful island. I did not leave the National Museum as I entered it. When I opened the museum doors to leave, the city was also not the same.  It seemed as if that day, while I was inside, someone had masterfully changed all the streets, trees, buildings and their colors.  Who had changed my city?  The question did not make much sense in that moment.  The real question was, “If right now everything is new, how do I find my way home?” My first visit to the Museum was a magical accident that I understood to be a kind of blessing. Encountering such a building full of silent white walls, without furniture, without banal objects, without any trace of everyday survival fascinated me.  After this visit the only work I still remembered with accuracy is La Gitana Tropical (Tropical Gypsy Woman) by Víctor Manuel García, a Cuban modernist painter who painted it in Paris in 1929.  I know well that she was the one who changed my city.  She is also my first love and my painful limerence. La Gitana Tropical is the portrait of a presumably Cuban dark-haired, young woman.  Her dark eyes insist on telling you serenely and absolutely, “I am beautiful, I am happy”.  I would have given everything to listen to her voice! I would have given my years, my city, my sea.  But I also think that her beautiful silence is worth all of that.  Maybe the Gypsy never existed.  Maybe Víctor Manuel in Paris, submerged in a subtle melancholy, painted her not with his brushes but with his memories. Ramón   On the 23rd of July 1989, the last day of school before summer recess, I found this short story between the mattress and the frame of one of the dormitory bunks.  It was Ramón´s bed.  At that moment all the others had already left the room.  I had been assigned the job of leaving the bedroom ready for the next school year which would begin in September.  In the middle of that quiet summer afternoon I sat on Ramón´s bed, read his story, and could not help but recall Ramón, who had been stabbed by one of our roommates some months before. The night Ramón died is still indescribable for me.  It was neither night nor day, neither cold nor warm, we were neither human beings nor animals, neither awake nor asleep.  What happened?  I do not know! After the stabbing, Ramón lay on his bed and in the middle of a terrifying silence, where only his desperate breath was audible, he died.  That night Ramón died, a young man of seventeen, who was still in love with the Tropical Gypsy. I read his story slowly. I went through his words as if they were never-ending highways and after a long trip through that sheet of paper, I arrived to a village called Silence.  I decided to write on its entrance the phrase that Ramón wrote in his story: “Silence is not the absence of sounds but what we keep quiet”. Diango Hernández, Düsseldorf 2009 Catalogue: A restrained and beautiful two-volume artist’s book from Cuban-born artist Diango Hernández, published concurrently with his exhibition in the Museum für Gegenwartskunst, Siegen. Triggered by a memory of a death the artist experienced as a child at boarding school, the book ranges through his recollections of a school system that left little room to develop one’s individuality. In finely detailed drawings and photographs, many of which dance on the edge between hyperrealism and surrealism, Hernández takes these threads and weaves a story using the means of fine art, a story in which everyday objects—functional, technical, and decorative fittings—play a part. Published by Sternberg Press, Edited by Eva Schmidt, Museum für Gegenwartskunst Siegen, Texts by Diango Hernández, Yilmaz Dziewior, Nuno Faria, Giovanni Iovane, Adam Szymczyk, Introduction by Steffen Mues and Eva Schmidt, Vol. 1, 28 x 22 cm, 136 pp., 111 color ill., hardcover, Vol. 2, 22 x 28 cm, 40 pp., softcover, October 2009, ...

La historia, mi juguete preferido Solo exhibition at Pepe Cobo y Cia, Madrid

“La retaguardia de las estatuas” por Javier Montes urante la Guerra Fría, las dos fábricas Alemanas de Lego (o sucedáneos Lego) siguieron fabricando sus piececitas a uno y otro lado del Telón de Acero. Pero las diseñaban apropósito para que las democráticas y las federales no encajaran unas en otras. La historia la cuenta Diango Hernández al hilo de su trabajo en el viejo taller y nuevo espacio de Pepe Cobo. No acaba de ser del todo cómica ni del todo triste, y da a la vez risa y rabia. Los ladrillitos de Lego son en principio la encarnación pura de lo universalmente simpático; pero en este contexto se vuelven un recordatorio en miniatura de los ladrillazos de un muro bastante más odioso, que el artista, nacido en Cuba en 1970 e instalado ahora en Europa, ha tenido la oportunidad de mirar mucho desde ambos lados. Una metáfora tenue, desencantada, casi amarga, muy del estilo de sus trabajos anteriores y de su reciclaje desengañado de los mitos de las supuestas utopías comunistas. Al final, un aviso por la vía del ejemplo sobre el escepticismo higiénico que cualquier artista debería oponer a los iluminados políticos de cualquier signo. Las piezas, vagamente constructivistas y de fines más bien propagandistas, se plantan aquí sobre dibujos «encontrados», y remachan la desconfianza de un artista hacia unas vanguardias cuya politización experimentó en carne propia. Ya lo decía a propósito de su última exposición en Madrid: «Estar delante del grupo se entiende como vanguardia. Es en esta posición donde se encuentran los más aventajados y también los más cínicos. Yo prefiero estar detrás y desde allí ver todo». UNA POSTURA INCÓMODA. Detrás o encima: alguna vez Hernández ha hablado de su «retavanguardia», una postura difícil y francamente incómoda que merece la pena mantener: este gabinete de dibujos que sirve de nota al pie para la instalación grande acierta al colocarse en el cuartito minúsculo que supervisa el antiguo taller reconvertido. Se llega a él por unas escaleritas difíciles, y tiene el techo tan bajo que no se puede entrar sin agacharse. Funciona a lo mejor como una especie de subconsciente del lugar y de la pieza del piso de abajo: un sitio secreto e incómodo, desde el que, eso sí, «se ve todo», como se propone el artista. Y todo es, abajo, casi nada: un vaciado en yeso amarillento de una estatua desangelada de Lenin, de quien sólo alcanzamos a ver los zapatos y las perneras: como un fantasma que se fuera desvaneciendo, o como un viejo modelo arrumbado en el taller, a la espera de unas reparaciones para las que ya no se fabrican repuestos. La estatua inacabada (o acabada de verdad) recuerda los paseos inquietantes por el Szoborpark de las afueras de Budapest, ese gigantesco desguace de la Historia donde se oxidan las grandes estatuas de la época comunista, arrumbadas y herrumbrosas. También hace pensar en el Monumento a un guante perdido y otras instalaciones de monumentalidad burlona de Ilya y Emilia Kabakov, que no habrían hecho ascos al tallercito madrileño de Pepe Cobo y que habrían captado muy bien cierto recuerdo peste de gasógeno franquista, desarrollismo y tecnocracia sesentera que aún desprende (y que vuelve más pertinente y da otra vuelta de tuerca al juego de alusiones históricas de Diango Hernández). De los Kabakov ha aprendido el interés a contracorriente por los objetos olvidados y las miserias escondidas por la retórica bombástica del totalitarismo: pupitres rotos, lámparas desvencijadas, máquinas de escribir antediluvianas y Ladas Niva de cartón piedra que otras veces repescó del vertedero de la Historia. COMO UNA REALIDAD LEJANA. Y piensa uno también en aquel Monumento a una civilización perdida, de la pareja rusa: la «civilización perdida » era, claro, la mismísima Unión Soviética, que a veinte años de la caída del Muro se ve ya tan lejana como el Antiguo Egipto: los pies de yeso (o barro) del colosal Lenin desguazado por Diango Hernández funcionan también aquí como resto arqueológico o pedacito ruinoso de su Angkor Vat particular. Falta sólo, para que el trabajo implacable del tiempo esté rematado, el perrito meón que nunca tarda en llegar a los pies de una estatua olvidada. En su lugar, Hernández coloca una manguera común y corriente con un alfilerazo. Por el agujerito se escapa un surtidorcito humilde y silencioso que se escurre sin grandes aspavientos por el desagüe del suelo del taller: suele ser el camino de los géiseres y las eyaculaciones ideológicas más potentes. ” ...

El Manual del Tractorista Arrepentido Solo booth curated by Adriano Pedrosa at Zona Maco, Mexico City with Alexander & Bonin, NY

ookshelves can be organized using many different systems and preferences. In a bookshelf a book could have a fat “neighbor” telling maybe a love story and a tall one that talks about  how beautiful is the sea. Certainly there is a lot going on inside any bookshelf and I am sure that in any of them live perfectly together differences and contradictions coexist in a very peaceful way. I love to think that we are nothing but books that have been written by many different people, in may different places but if we are books what are books then? I know this question can’t be properly answered using words and we all know that the “real” books are still unwritten and will remain unwritten forever. A book is a box, a sort of folded drawer, books are the first object ever that were genuinely designed to be stored and classified; there are books permanently closed in a profound state of unconsciousness, in a sort of coma. To read a single book in a whole life is OK, I’ll suggest reading three to five books and I am sure you’ll have enough material to combine. But material to be combined with what? It is only with life that a book should be combined with. What is the relation between these five books? 1 – “Manual del Tractorista”. V. Anojin y A. Sájarov, 1970. Pueblo y Educación, La Habana. 2 – “P.E. Guerin, Inc. Manufacter of Period Hardware”. And all forms of art metal work, 1914. NY. 3 – “John Fitzgerald Kennedy, 1917 – 1963″. Urs Schwarz, 1964. Frankfurt. 4 – “American Case of Furniture”. Gerald W.R. Ward, 1988. Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven. 5 – “Girón: Una estocada a fondo”. 1976, Empresa de Medios de Propaganda, La Habana. These five titles are the ones involved in “Manual del Tractorista Arrepentido”. Five titles that could have many ways to be connected to each other but what interested me the most about working with them wasn’t the idea of constructing any fictional nor veritable relation in-between them but the idea of opening, transforming and displaying these books in a way that no one ever thought about when they were written, designed, printed or read. Any of the “truths” printed in these five books has been transformed into a subjective matter, these five books are not in a coma any longer, now they are open and they have became something other than a book. Diango Hernández, NY April 2009 ...

Th-ink Solo exhibition at Alexander & Bonin, NY

n exhibition of Diango Hernández’s Drawing (Third hand), 2006 will open April 4th at Alexander and Bonin. The work, a set of fifty ink drawings, evolved out of Hernández’s interest in the Polish artist Andrzej Wróblewski (1927 – 1957). Hernández was drawn to Wróblewski because, in him, he saw a “person confused and affected by a political system: confused because I no longer know how to judge the system that formed me, but at the same time deformed me.” It is the sense of deformity that is directly addressed in Drawing (Third hand). The work specifically references one of Wróblewski’s drawings that shows a man with a third arm protruding from his back. Hernández places the ambiguity of this symbolism within his own context of growing up in Cuba. The fifty drawing are a handmade “mass production”, each one a copy of the previous on pages torn from a 1940s German balance book. Each drawing is made unique by drops of water that serve to dissolve the strict repetition of the drawing. The artist states: “I don’t wonder what will happen to the political mistakes, because the mistakes are obviously mistakes that are always ready to recur again and again in different guises. The big challenge for each one of us in any case will be to become single drops.” Diango Hernández began his artistic practice in Cuba in 1994 as a co-founder of Ordo Amoris Cabinet, a group of artists and designers who focused on invented solutions for home design objects to compensate for a permanent shortage of materials and goods. Born in 1970 in Sancti Spiritus, Cuba, the artist moved to Europe in 2003 and currently lives and works in Düsseldorf. His work was the subject of solo exhibitions at the Kunsthalle, Basel in 2006 and in 2007 at the Neuer Aachener Kunstverein, Aachen. His work was exhibited in the Arsenale as part of the 51st Venice Biennale in 2005, and he exhibited in 2006 at the Biennale of Sydney and the São Paulo Biennial. In April 2009 he will exhibit a solo project at ZONA MACO in Mexico City. ...

Inspire me, again Solo exhibition at Stella Lohaus, Antwerp

he artistic research carried out by Diango Hernández (born in Sancti Spiritus, Cuba in 1970, living and working in Düsseldorf, Germany since 2003) shows close ties with Havana, the city he grew up in. His paintings, drawings, collages and sculptures incorporate themes such as democracy (and its feasibility), communication and the idea of individual freedom. Inspire me, again is about Hernández’s research into the nature of his home country, Cuba. The title is about change, but also about someone who was important and has turned into an icon. But it also means: what happens now? Hernández sees political ideas as an important inspiration for life, rather than as concrete systems needed to organise society. Logically, the revolution plays an important role in this. However, it also acquires universal significance in that it expresses the longing for a new beginning, a birth. The illustration on the invitation shows the image of a nursing mother, whose head has been replaced by that of Fidel Castro. The image is unambiguous: for the Cuban people Fidel is the ideological mother, the leader who feeds his children (and the future). For his first exhibition in the Stella Lohaus Gallery Diango Hernández created five installations, in which the voice is transformed into energy. The sound recording media transmit the speech ‘The Second Declaration of Havana’, given by Fidel Castro in February 1962. In this speech Castro divulges to the people that Cuba is about to distance itself from the United States and that the country will pursue a communist course. Fidel’s voice and the words from his speech are translated into electric pulses, which then form the power that drives the objects. The rhythm of the machine is synchronised with the rhythm, the intensity and the silences of the speech. The five objects were chosen very carefully. They are all normal household appliances, but for Hernández they have a strong symbolic meaning: the blender mixes, pulverizes and uniformizes. The vacuum cleaner tidies and cleans and ‘sucks up’, makes disappear. The radio connects us with the outside world, the fan puts the air in motion and refreshes. Lastly, the globe is isolated, but its power comes from within. The objects are being displayed on a naked brick ‘stage’. It reminds of a deconstructed wall, the unity is gone, the connection is unstable and vulnerable. They have become islands, loose relics from a past. The second-hand shirts suggest bodies, that could contain new or old leaders. The checked pattern is as a code to the Cubans: employees of the Department of the Interior or the secret police wore checked shirts. It was a kind of uniform. Now they just lie next to the objects, they are ‘off-duty’, the working day is over. The painting Ultrasound to my mother history, We got twins conveys, in a very direct way, the paradoxical relationship between the US and Cuba that established itself when Kennedy came to power. The ultrasound shows twins in the mother’s belly. Again, this is about sound and vibrations, here transformed into a visual image. In addition, Hernández dwells on the Kennedy murder in the collages alongside the objects. Puzzle-like pieces resembling the murder itself. The stone ‘socles’ resemble puzzle-like items, strange shapes of countries, or different provinces, states, maybe torn-apart continents. Traces of a cohesion that no longer exists. ...

On Air Solo exhibition curated by Huh joung-en at Künstlerverein Malkasten, Düsseldorf

uring the opening a radio transmitter was permanently broadcasting L’Internationale: Debout! les damnés de la terre Debout! les forçats de la faim La raison tonne en son cratère, C’est l’éruption de la fin. Du passé faisons table rase Foule esclave, debout! debout! Le monde va changer de base Nous ne sommes rien, soyons tout! Refrain: C’est la lutte finale Groupons-nous et demain L’Internationale Sera le genre humain. Il n’est pas de sauveurs suprêmes: Ni dieu, ni césar, ni tribun, Producteurs, sauvons-nous nous mêmes! Décrétons le salut commun! Pour que le voleur rende gorge, Pour tirer l’esprit du cachot Soufflons nous-mêmes notre forge, Battons le fer quand il est chaud! L’etat opprime et la loi triche, L’impôt saigne le malheureux, Nul devoir ne s’impose au riche, Le droit du pauvre est un mot creux. C’est assez languir en tutelle, L’égalité veut d’autres lois; «Pas de droits sans devoirs», dit-elle, «Egaux, pas de devoirs sans droits!» Hideux dans leur apothéose, Les rois de la mine et du rail Ont-ils jamais fait autre chose Que dévaliser le travail? Dans les coffres-forts de la bande Ce qu’il a créé s’est fondu. En décrétant qu’on le lui rende Le peuple ne veut que son dû. Les rois nous saoulaient de fumées. Paix entre nous, guerre aux tyrans! Appliquons la grève aux armées, Crosse en l’air et rompons les rangs! S’ils s’obstinent, ces cannibales, A faire de nous des héros, Ils sauront bientôt que nos balles Sont pour nos propres généraux. Ouvriers, paysans, nous sommes Le grand parti des travailleurs; La terre n’appartient qu’aux hommes, L’oisif ira loger ailleurs. Combien de nos chairs se repaissent! Mais si les corbeaux, les vautours, Un de ces matins disparaissent, Le soleil brillera toujours! ...