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filled to the rafters. Very soon after he began speaking, an odd and amusing incident developed. 

Rivera's English was almost non-existent so he spoke in Spanish. A friend of mine, Emily Joseph, stood beside him on the stage, translating. She was a tiny, pert, bright-eyed little creature, sharp as a tack. Not knowing Spanish, I was puzzled when, suddenly, a few persons in the audience began to titter, whispering to one another. Certainly, nothing said on the stage had been in the least funny. From Emily's translation, Rivera appeared to be talking art.

In fact, he was infusing large doses of Leftist propaganda into his lecture, mixing ideology with art. Murals of course lend themselves to ideology of any brand and Rivera's sympathies were well known. But Emily was not translating these passages. When he talked ideology for a moment or two and then paused to let Emily translate, she