“It is difficult to find, not in Vitoria, but in almost all of Spain, a factory as sumptuous, as elegant, or as labor intensive as this one: fortunately the church is preserved in perfect condition and its restoration is easy.” If the archaeologist José Colá y Goiti had lived long enough, perhaps he would have voluntarily accompanied the fatal fate of the convent of San Francisco in Vitoria, incapable of understanding human behavior. But he died in 1924, six years before the end of this chapter of the darkest chronicle of Spanish heritage: far from being restored, the enormous building—a “microcity” in the urban heart of the Alava capital—was executed, dynamited, completely demolished to settle the weak debate generated to date regarding its conservation.
Then, the empty lot without plans for two decades was responsible for stirring the conscience of those who had supported the disappearance of the monastery. The error was of such magnitude that it continues to weigh on the people of Vitoria today. The wound remains open, they say. But how could he afford such a calamity?
It is enough to look at the latest photographs taken inside the building – where the extraordinary bas-reliefs that decorated the walls of the Gothic church appear – to become aware of the dimension of the disaster. Or turn to another of the aggravating factors of the situation, perhaps the most incomprehensible from today’s perspective: the temple of San Francisco was partially destroyed just two days after the file for its protection as a national monument was initiated.
No one—not even then—was naïve enough to think that it was an accident. A paradox (demolition, despite its legal protection) that many other buildings had incurred in the first third of the 20th century, even later. The protection of the Soria hermitage of San Baudelio de Berlanga in 1917 did not prevent the removal of its mural paintings in 1926. Nor did it stop the Franco Government’s maneuver to hand over the apse of the church of San Martín de Fuentidueña to the United States in 1958, despite be a national monument. Then a surreal trick was used, that of the temporary deposit of the property, as if the Romanesque chevet was going to be dismantled one day and begin the return trip to the town of Segovia from The Cloisters museum in New York.
When the historians of the Álava Medieval project took on the challenge of investigating what happened to the convent of Vitoria, they soon realized that they were facing a unique case. “From an artistic point of view, it was an important building, in the Gothic style, whose construction began at the end of the 13th century, was completed in the 14th century and continued to evolve with the incorporation of another cloister and many Renaissance-style chapels,” Gorka describes. López de Munain, art historian who coordinated the preparation of the most ambitious monographic work to date in 2018.
However, “what would stand out most is its connection with the city, since it was a meeting place for the council, the general meetings of Álava, it opened a school for the Franciscan order and very important figures from Vitoria were buried there,” says the author of The lost city Cultural history of the convent of San Francisco de Vitoria-Gasteizalong with Íñigo Ezkerra, Isabel Mellén and Ander Gondra.
A place disputed by the elites
So the importance of the Franciscan convent transcended its origins at the end of the 13th century, when it was built by order of a woman, Berenguela López de Haro, with the collaboration of King Alfonso X the Wise. The noblewoman had expressed in her will her wish to be buried there, a decision that would end up filling the basement of the church choir with the tombs of the most important women of the time. As the centuries passed, the enormous monastic complex—a church, two cloisters, and a series of residential buildings that covered an entire block—“was highly disputed by the elites of the time; “It was not just a Franciscan convent, but a cultural and political agent of the city,” says López de Munain.
However, a long and bitter decline awaited this “lost city,” beginning in the turbulent 19th century. The exclaustration of the Franciscans left the offices at the service of one of the most common phenomena at that time: war. “Around the nave and the cloister, there were a series of buildings with rooms measuring thousands of square meters; When it stopped being a Franciscan convent, the building was transformed into a perfect space to be converted into a barracks,” explains the research coordinator.
So the military embodied the new “monks” of that complex that would not abandon its military function until 1925, when the last troops were transferred to new spaces, following the political strategy of the dictator Miguel Primo de Rivera for the entire country.
The 20th century brought with it new plans for the convent of San Francisco, which, from the first decades, would face a frenetic and inexorable countdown towards the fateful year: 1930. But what were the causes of the complete demolition of the building ? “It is a very difficult question, there were many reasons, although one of them was, without a doubt, the fact that the set had arrived without a clear use at the beginning of the 20th century,” explains Gorka López de Munain.
The situation of the old monastery – linked to the life of the city wall, but outside of it – was another of the factors that worked against it: the concept that it “was in the way”, that it slowed down, began to permeate society. the future expansions of the city and, ultimately, the progress of the people of Vitoria. It didn’t take long for different proposals to arise to occupy the site that, presumably, would be left by the old buildings – in a situation of semi-abandonment, but not ruin; among them, the project to build a new cathedral, which would end up being scrapped.
Total war
Events would end up precipitating at the end of the 1920s. Absolutely convinced that Vitoria’s urban plans included the complete disappearance of the Franciscan convent, the city council will undertake a relentless battle, a total war against any dissenting opinion, to achieve the objective.
Opposite, the institutions in charge of safeguarding heritage: from the Commission of Historical and Artistic Monuments of Álava to the academies of History and Fine Arts, and the Ministry of Public Instruction itself. The authorities allowed the demolition of the former barracks, as long as the church was kept intact. An ironclad condition, yes, since it was not in the mayor’s plans to undertake the costly restoration of a church in which he saw no use. Equally unambitious: historians of the time cared nothing about the preservation of the two cloisters, in Gothic and Baroque style.
It was then that a new actor entered the scene: the Municipal Fund of Vitoria took over the property, which it will try to make profitable through (this, yes) an ambitious real estate plan, which includes the construction of luxury homes. “There are interesting movements: to favor public opinion, the idea is launched that cheap houses are going to be built for the population of Vitoria, and this permeates the press, which begins to generate a situation favorable to demolition,” analyzes the coordinator of the study. A clear ruse (the houses would not even be projected) that indicated how the final battle would be approached in two different fields: one, the legal one; the other, the press.
In fact, the main newspapers in Álava—El Heraldo Alavés and La Libertad—entered fully into the conflict, publishing hundreds of articles, giving voice to opinions that were deeply harmful to the conservation of the Gothic convent, associating it with expressions such as “null artistic value.” or “artistic wealth of any kind.” The Vitoria city council takes advantage of the wind in its favor and promotes the mantra that the people unanimously support its plans. “The society of the moment looked at all this with curiosity; In the general mood, as perceived especially through the newspaper La Libertad, the idea appears that this was a hindrance, something that came from the past and we had to look to the future,” says López de Munain.
Academies take action
The pressure from the defenders of the demolition was such that they managed to involve Primo de Rivera himself. The dictator’s words typed in a telegram seem to give way to the demolition, stating that “it has been agreed to authorize that municipality (Vitoria) to continue the urbanization works without the church of San Francisco, whose conservation being an obstacle to them. , due to its low artistic value, it is not of interest to the Monumental Treasure.” There would be yet another factor that would favor the disappearance of the convent: the political instability and confusion at the end of the dictatorship (the Second Republic was waiting around the corner) represented the perfect breeding ground.
In fact, everything would have been much faster and simpler if the heritage guarantor institutions had not come into action – almost at the last bend. The Royal Academy of History rescued an article from the Royal Decree-Law approved in 1926, which states that the artistic treasure remains under the protection of the State, to encourage the conservation of the convent. For its part, under the direction of Manuel Gómez-Moreno, the Academy of Fine Arts promotes the file that converts the church of San Francisco into a national monument. And it does so on a date that is worth remembering for a few moments: April 8, 1930. It should be noted that the beginning of the process already prohibited any action contrary to its conservation.
Only two days later, after the file that definitively ruined their plans was communicated to the Vitoria city council, one of the most shameful coincidences in the history of Spanish heritage occurred. On April 10, 1930, the apse of the Gothic temple appeared visibly damaged, a circumstance that brought what remained of the building closer to a state of imminent ruin, since in the following days the collapse of the most valuable part of the building would be confirmed. The details of the city council’s unspeakable strategy would be aired in the press, to the disgrace of the institution: the head was demolished “by tying some ropes and hooking them to some trucks that, when they started, caused the demolition of the apse.” Clear way for complete demolition.
Some elements of proven artistic value, such as the cloisters, were requested by Alava municipalities. However, the authors of the most extensive investigation ever carried out were unable to trace where the San Francisco stones ended up. “The site went for 18 years without anything being built and that left a big mark: the idea that an extraordinary monument had been demolished without a clear justification permeated the city,” reveals Gorka López de Munain. “I would like to think that disasters like this would not happen again today and, in fact, I think it would be difficult for it to happen in a city,” reflects the art historian, “but this continues to happen in the rural area, more forgotten, where we find churches completely sunken Romanesque and capitals that anyone can carry with their hands.”
To remember the wound left by the disappearance of the convent, it is enough to access the offices of the building that occupied its site, the Álava Treasury Delegation, from where you can see the only remains that survived the disaster.
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