Inside the Robert Steel Workshops (Juan Luna y Novicio, 1893. Óleo sobre lienzo. 418 x 178 cm.)
by Amaia Barrena García
Those who know no sweat have clean hands. Those who are not busy have their hands in their pockets. Heads that think wear bowler hats, but they do not act; they have clean faces that will not get dirty from looking up. If they did, if they looked up, they would see the hunched, tired walks in more than one man. The walk of the man carrying water buckets is so necessary in the business of fire. Because in a place where thermometers burst, wetting the back of the neck or pouring a bucket of water over oneself to dump the ashes stuck to the shirt is almost a right. If those men wearing suits and talking in a circle would pay attention, they would find slag still usable, carried for those who feel like slag themselves. Sadness is not permitted. Dignity, however, makes its way between those with more wrinkles on their face than in the blankets they use at night and work more hours than a bear sleeps in winter. Many left their families yesterday with the promise of a brighter tomorrow, while they spend today suffering higher degrees than those the milk needs to boil. They are clogs in a system that drains your batteries, they are supporting actors in progress; they are extras that are not in the credits, the anonymous people nobody will remember. They are the workers who forged the iron, kept the flames, carried the stones on their backs, and did not let despondency win them over. They are those who withstood and built the landscapes we now live in. They are those who could not have their hands in their pockets.
