Yesterday, the girls and I went to the Reina Sofía Museum to see
La Guernica. I’d been gearing up for this moment, as we’ve been working on a project to get our heads around not just the painting itself but the cost of war, the Spanish Civil War, and how art is used as a form of protest. No big deal, just your average casual family discussion topics.
The museum was full of artworks that laid bare the horrors of war from all angles—gut-wrenching, thought-provoking, and at times, overwhelming. But standing in front of
La Guernica, in a world where women and children are still being bombed from above in Palestine, the weight of it all felt even heavier. Art has this uncanny way of making history feel not so much like history, but like something reaching out and shaking you by the shoulders.
I’ll be honest, I’ve been stressing about how to educate the girls while we travel. I have plenty of grand ideas—executing them with a tween and a teen, though? That’s another story. There’s been resistance. There’s been eye-rolling. At times, I’ve questioned my own sanity. But then, every so often, the magic happens. They think. They connect. They ask questions. They tie their whakapapa to the Spanish Civil War. They ask Dani whether their family was starving during the war. The answer: yes. Madrid’s working class were cut off, left to starve. The suffering rippled across the country.
And then, in front of La Guernica, we got into the big stuff. Symbolism. Protest. How a painting can slap the world awake. And how we can use art to process the things that words sometimes can’t touch.
So, despite my worries, I think we’re getting somewhere. Teaching my kids while on the road may not be a polished, textbook-perfect experience, but that’s fine by me. History isn’t about rote learning; it’s about feeling, questioning, making connections. And if it comes with a bit of pushback and some dramatic sighing, well, I’ll take it as part of the process. It’s sinking in—whether they admit it or not
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