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Capablanca, the timeless maestro: Dialogues and reflections that never took place

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November 28, 2025
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To celebrate the recent anniversary of the birth of former world champion José Raúl Capablanca and “International Chess Day”, 19 November, I have decided to present our readers with an imaginary interview with the Cuban legend.

Uvencio Blanco Hernández: Mr. Capablanca, let us begin our dialogue by briefly addressing some aspects of your personal life. Would you mind sharing a few biographical details about your childhood and family background?

José Raúl Capablanca. With pleasure, sir. Although many remember me for my games, few truly know the man behind the chessboard. Allow me, then, to open a window into my life. My childhood, though short on intimate recollections, was decisive for my development. My full name is José Raúl Capablanca y Graupera. I was born on 19 November 1888, in a house on Zanja Street in Havana, Cuba, when it was still a Spanish colony. My paternal surname, Capablanca, comes from a Spanish lineage; my mother, Matilde María Graupera y Marín, was from Matanzas and had Catalan roots.

I was the second of nine children of Colonel José María Capablanca Fernández, who played a key role in my life. I learned to play by observing. I was four years old when I saw my father contest a game and, almost without knowing why, I was able to correct an irregular move. It was an act of pure contemplation. I did not learn from books, but by intuition. The board revealed itself to me as a logical landscape. At that age, one has no prejudices, only wonder. Perhaps that is why my style was so clear.

From then on, the board became a sort of personal territory. I did not study it, I breathed it. “One day”, my father told me in Havana, “you will understand that chess is not merely a game, it is a way of thinking”. These words, spoken in the tropical breeze of my childhood, have returned to me with renewed clarity as I observe, from this enigmatic corner of time, how the noble game of chess has changed over the last hundred years.

My youth unfolded between Havana and New York. There, at the Manhattan Chess Club, I completed my formation. I did not seek fame, I sought precision. Victories over experienced players nurtured a confidence that was never arrogance, but conviction. If anything marked my youth, it was clarity. I soon understood that chess required no artifices.

Tell us about your image and personal interests

As for my physical appearance, I have a fair complexion, stand at around 1.75 metres, have dark brown hair, and dark, penetrating eyes. My face is serene but firm, which gives me the air of a Creole aristocrat, although I consider myself to be a man of the people.

At times I am called “The Chess Machine” for the precision with which I played, and also “The Mozart of Chess”, as they say I play as one who composes music without needing a score.

I married twice. My first wife was Gloria Simoni y Amador, with whom I had two children: José Raúl Jr and Gloria Capablanca Simoni. Later, in 1938, I married Olga Chagodayev, a cultured and refined lady of Russian origin who shared my passion for the arts. I studied at Columbia University in New York, where I enrolled in 1906 to pursue Chemical Engineering, although I did not complete my formal studies. My passion for chess and my early entry into the world elite led me down a different path. However, my time at Columbia left a mark on me: there I refined my English and gained access to a cosmopolitan intellectual environment.

Throughout my life, I also served as a cultural attaché and diplomat for Cuba. I represented my country with pride in various embassies, combining chess with foreign service. I always saw myself as an ambassador of Cuban culture: I understand chess to be a bond between nations. My diplomatic career in Cuba allowed me to see that a champion represents not only a title, but culture, values and civilised coexistence. A champion must be an ambassador.

I love classical music. I play the piano regularly, especially works by Chopin, Beethoven, and Cuban composers such as Lecuona. I attend concerts and gatherings of intellectuals. Music helps me restore inner calm after the demands of competition. I read with pleasure the works of Montaigne, Goethe, Dostoyevsky, José Martí, and various essays on psychology. I am interested in philosophy and writings that probed the human condition. I also enjoy poetry.

And what about your participation in sporting activities and your political ideas?

I am fond of baseball, a national sport in Cuba, and as a young man I played as a pitcher and first baseman at Columbia University. I was considered a good player and believe I could have gone further. I was also interested in tennis, swimming, fencing, dominoes, horse riding, and leisurely walks. Among my pastimes are solving chess problems and talking with friends about politics, culture and science.

I was world chess champion from 1921 to 1927, after defeating Doctor Emanuel Lasker in Havana. The third world champion, and the only Latin American to ever achieve this feat. I lost the title to Alexander Alekhine in Buenos Aires in 1927, in a hard-fought match marked by extra-sporting tensions. Unfortunately, I never received a rematch.

I took part in numerous international tournaments and congresses, wrote treatises such as Chess Fundamentals (1921), and left articles in which I tried to explain my view of the game: clear, scientific and deeply human.

I never belonged to a political party, but I was a convinced Cuban patriot. I always defended the dignity of the Cuban people and I believe in a just, cultured and sovereign republic. I spoke out against dictatorships, extremism, and any form of intolerance. I applauded the social achievements of my country without allowing myself to be swept up by ideologies. I believe in merit, education, mutual respect and courtesy – values I extended to the board and to life. I abhor arrogance and deceit, and see in chess a mirror of the human soul.

Master, your match against Emanuel Lasker in 1921 marked a historic milestone. What did you learn from him, not only as an opponent but also as an intellectual figure in chess?

That encounter with Emanuel Lasker in 1921 was more than a simple match for the World Championship, it was a lesson in life and thought. Lasker was not an ordinary opponent. He was a philosopher of the board, a man who saw chess as a laboratory for studying human behaviour, uncertainty and willpower. I always admired his ability to face difficult positions with a calmness that bordered on the scientific – he seemed to analyse not only the moves but also the soul of his opponent. From him I learned that strength in chess depends not only on calculation, but on profound understanding of principles, balance and psychology.

Lasker knew how to resist like no one else, knew when to fight and when to wait. That patience, that ability to create practical problems, taught me the importance of maintaining clarity even amid tension. As an intellectual figure, Lasker elevated chess to a philosophical and human realm. His vision confirmed for me that our game is an art of thought, a form of knowledge requiring discipline, character and sensitivity. I hold him in immense respect: facing him was, truly, learning from a sage.

You are considered one of the clearest and most precise players in history. How would you define the essence of your style, and what lessons do you believe it offers to twenty-first-century chess players?

I have always believed that chess, in its purest form, is an art of simplicity. My style was born of that conviction: to seek clarity in every position, to avoid the unnecessary, and to allow the pieces to breathe in harmony. I am not interested in artificial complication, I prefer the truth of the position to reveal itself. For me, the essence of chess lies in economy: each move must serve a purpose, each piece must occupy the square that corresponds to it by natural logic, not by whim. Precision arises, therefore, due to that clarity.

When one deeply understands the principles – pawn structure, piece activity, king safety – the correct moves appear naturally, almost without visible effort. Many called it talent. I always understood it as respect for the essence of the game. To twenty-first-century chess players, immersed in a world of machines and endless variations, I would say: do not forget the fundamentals. Before memorising, learn to think; before calculating ten moves ahead, understand what the position requires.

Chess will continue to change, but the truth of the board remains. Whoever masters the simple will master the complex.

What was the biggest milestone of your chess career, and why do you consider that it shaped your development as a player and as a human being?

If I must choose a decisive moment in my career, I would point to my triumph at the San Sebastián Tournament of 1911. I was only twenty-two, and many, especially in Europe, doubted that a young Cuban could compete with the world’s chess elite. That tournament, filled with established masters, was a trial by fire – it was an opportunity to demonstrate that talent, when cultivated with discipline and love for the game, knows no limits.

The victory not only opened the doors to international recognition but confirmed something deeper: confidence in my intuition and in my way of understanding chess. I realised that clarity, logic and composure could prevail even in the most demanding settings. This lesson shaped my development as a player: it taught me to maintain my poise, to trust simplicity when the position called for it, and to value elegance as a real force, not an ornament.

As a human being, San Sebastián showed me the worth of quiet perseverance. It confirmed that greatness does not spring from vanity, but from constant work and respect for one’s own talent. It was, truly, the beginning of my inner journey in chess.

In your opinion, what role does intuition play in chess, and what role does calculation play? Can a modern master balance both elements?

Intuition and calculation are, in my view, two inseparable pillars of chess, though they do not share the same origin. Intuition is born of deep experience, of continuous contact with positions that the player has absorbed until they become part of his natural way of thinking. It is a silent, almost instantaneous knowledge that allows one to recognise the essence of a position without examining every variation. When I spoke of “seeing” the correct move, I was referring to that immediate clarity that arises from understanding chess as a living organism.

Calculation, on the other hand, is the verification. It is the instrument that refines and confirms what intuition points out. Its function is not to replace understanding, but to purify it, eliminate errors, and ensure that the idea holds even against the opponent’s most precise resistance. Calculating without understanding leads to exhaustion; relying solely on intuition may lead to carelessness.

A modern master, immersed in the age of engines and an abundance of information, must learn to balance both elements. The machine can show lines, but only the human being can give them meaning. He who knows how to combine cultivated instinct with exact calculation will possess a truly superior style.

José Raúl Capablanca

Capablanca contemplating the board (AI)

You maintained that simplicity is the culmination of talent. How does one teach this “profound simplicity” to a student who often mistakes complexity for brilliance?

Profound simplicity cannot be imposed: it is revealed. To a student who confuses complexity with brilliance, I would teach, above all, to distinguish the essential from the peripheral. I would show him games in which a single improvement in the structure or a well-placed piece is worth more than ten forced tactical blows. True strength comes from understanding why a move is necessary, not from surprising the spectator.

Simplicity is learned by cultivating logic: always asking which piece must be improved, which weakness must be avoided, which plan flows naturally. When the student discovers that clear positions offer greater control and fewer mistakes, he understands that genuine brilliance is the consequence of order, not artifice. The teacher’s task is to guide the student’s gaze towards the truth of the board. Once he or she sees that truth, simplicity becomes inevitable.

In a world where competition grows ever faster, what value do you see in classical games, slow reflection and deep analysis?

In an age of haste, classical games retain an irreplaceable value: they remind us that chess is, above all, an exercise in thought. Slow reflection allows us to listen to the internal logic of the position, to understand its nuances, and to make decisions that arise not from impulse but from clarity. Without that space for calm, the player risks becoming a mere executor of fast moves rather than a true creator. Deep analysis shapes character: it teaches patience, rigour and strategic sense.

In the classical game one learns to live with doubt, to value every resource, and to discover the hidden connections of the game. For younger generations, immersed in accelerated rhythms, such games are both refuge and school. There lies the essence of the chess art: thinking calmly in order to play with precision.

If you had the opportunity to converse with later champions – for instance Fischer, Kasparov or Carlsen – what topics would you like to explore with them regarding the evolution of chess?

I would be interested, above all, in understanding how the very nature of chess thinking has changed. With Fischer I would speak about his revolution in preparation: he brought the seriousness of study to a level that in my time was unimaginable. I would like to know how he conceived the balance between natural talent and methodical work, and what he really sought when he spoke of “truth” in chess.

With Kasparov I would explore the impact of computers and the opening of the board to a universe of almost infinite analysis. I would ask whether, despite so many variations and machines, he still believes that the essence of the game lies in human understanding of principles and initiative.

With Carlsen I would discuss practical chess, resilience and modern technique. He embodies a synthesis of intuition and calculation that I find particularly close to my own spirit. I would ask how he interprets the “small advantage” in a world where everything seems known to engines.

With all three, I would address a central question: whether, despite technological evolution, chess continues to be a human art founded on clarity, logic and imagination. In this, I believe, lies its true greatness.

With young people today learning chess with engines and digital platforms, what advice would you give them to avoid losing the ability to think for themselves?

To the young who learn chess surrounded by engines and platforms, I would say that they should use these tools as lighthouses, not crutches. Machines can show the best move, but they cannot teach you to understand why that move is correct. And without understanding, there is no true progress.

I would recommend analysing first on their own, even if they make mistakes, and only then comparing with the engine. It is in that contrast that deep learning is born.

I would also suggest studying simple endings, pawn structures and typical plans: that is where independent thinking grows stronger. Play slow games, reflect without assistance, and always ask what the position demands. Mental independence is the chess player’s greatest treasure. Whoever thinks for himself will remain a master of his own game.

Which game best represents your philosophy of chess, and what lesson do you believe a modern student should draw from it?

If I must choose a game that most faithfully reflects my philosophy of chess, I would point to my encounter with Janowski in New York, 1916. Not because it was spectacular in a tactical sense, but because it shows what I consider to be the heart of the game: clarity, harmony, and the patient transformation of small advantages into an incontrovertible truth. In that game, each piece fulfilled its natural role: there were no dazzling blows, but a steady accumulation of strategic precision that eventually smothered my opponent’s defence.

For the modern student, the lesson is simple yet profound: in chess, beauty does not arise from noise but from order. One need not seek extraordinary combinations to win, it is enough to understand what the position requires and execute it without haste. The game demonstrates that a correct plan, supported by logically linked moves, can be more powerful than any tactical artifice. There the essence of chess is revealed: victory is the natural consequence of thinking clearly.

Another game I hold very dear is the one against Bernstein, San Sebastián, 1911. It was not only a victory, but an affirmation of my right to stand among the greats. Each move flowed as if I were playing a piano tuned to my soul.

What ethical and character qualities can chess develop in a child, and which do you consider indispensable to form a true master?

When chess is taught with an educational spirit, it awakens in children qualities that go beyond the board. The first is honesty: in our game there is no room for external deceit, only for clarity of thought. Next comes discipline, since every step forward demands patience, study and attention. Responsibility is also cultivated: each move is a decision that cannot be undone, and the child learns to assume his or her choices without excuses. I would add respect, both for the opponent and for the rules, and the composure to face defeat without losing heart or dignity.

To form a true master – in chess and in life – these foundations are not enough unless two indispensable virtues are added: intellectual humility and the drive for perfection. The first allows one to recognise one’s own limits and to keep learning; the second urges one to refine one’s thinking until the purest clarity is reached.

After years of long reflection, can you tell us why you lost the world title to Alexander Alekhine in Buenos Aires?

After many years of calm reflection, I have come to understand that the loss of the title in Buenos Aires, 1927, cannot be attributed to a single cause, but to the convergence of several circumstances. First of all, I underestimated Alekhine’s specific preparation. I relied too much on my natural understanding of the game and on my previous results, while he arrived at the match with a meticulous study of my openings, my endgames and my strategic preferences. That dedication created imbalances that I did not know how to neutralise in time. Secondly, the prolonged conditions of the match – so long and demanding – favoured his combative style and his psychological resilience. I, accustomed to resolving positions with clarity and economy, did not always find the energy to fight in dense, prolonged battles.

Lastly, I must admit to an excess of confidence. I believed that my historical superiority would be enough, and I did not always approach each game with the necessary intensity. Alekhine, by contrast, played like a man prepared to give his life for the title. Thus I learned a profound lesson: even the strongest player must renew himself, adapt and prepare rigorously. Talent is not enough when the opponent turns willpower into his principal weapon. Alekhine was a belligerent, brilliant artist, but at times dishonest on the human level. I regret that our duel was not resolved honourably – that is, losing the world title without a fair rematch. Not so much because of the title itself, but because of the principle of fairness. I was patient, I waited, I insisted… but the conditions never came. Alekhine refused, and the world allowed it.

If you had the opportunity to organise the best Olympiad chess team, with four main players and two reserves, whom would you choose?

A fascinating question, sir. Allow me to say that choosing an ideal Olympiad team is no small task. Chess, though essentially individual, becomes a collective art when played for one’s country. A team must combine styles, temperaments and strategic strengths with a fine sense of balance. It is not enough to gather the most brilliant players: wills must be harmonised. Thus, if I had the opportunity to organise the best Olympiad team, I would choose the following six players, on the basis of their genius, versatility, composure and capacity to inspire the group. I have considered not only pure chess strength, but also human qualities, psychological adaptability and contribution to team spirit.

  • First board: Magnus Carlsen (Norway). Because he represents the universality of modern chess. His positional understanding, psychological resilience and ability to adapt to all types of positions make him the most complete player of his generation. He possesses something I value above all: the ability to win equal positions.
  • Second board: Garry Kasparov (Russia). Because of his volcanic energy, his tactical vision and his indomitable will. If chess is also a battle, Kasparov is its great commander. I would place him on second board to make use of his aggression against players perhaps less solid than those on the top board.
  • Third board: Anatoly Karpov (Russia). Because the team’s balance demands it. His style is surgical, economical and positional, just what is needed on a third board where points are won without fanfare. Karpov plays like a poet who has no need to raise his voice.
  • Fourth board: José Raúl Capablanca (Cuba). With your permission, I would include myself. On fourth board I could contribute solidity, precise endgames and a serene outlook to maintain the team’s emotional balance. At times, the secret of an Olympiad victory lies in avoiding defeat at the right moment.
  • First reserve: Bobby Fischer (United States). Because he is perhaps the purest individual talent chess has produced. A blazing genius. His capacity to prepare specific lines in depth makes him a lethal wildcard to face players with particular styles. Using him in key rounds could unsettle any opposing lineup.
  • Second reserve: Judit Polgár (Hungary). Her inclusion symbolises the universality of chess as a talent without gender or borders. Judit possessed the audacity of a classical attacker and the modern preparation of a complete professional. Her fighting spirit and joy for chess would lift the team in difficult moments.

As for rotation, not all would play all the time. Fischer would be held back for specific encounters against powers with aggressive styles or psychological instability. Polgár would bring energy in middle rounds and contribute to the team’s morale. No rigid hierarchies: although the boards have a logical order, I would favour a horizontal approach to decision-making, promoting collective analytical sessions.

As coach, I would like someone such as Mark Dvoretsky or Genna Sosonko himself as technical adviser. Strategy also requires emotional wisdom. This team seeks not only victory, but also to show the world the different ways of understanding chess as art, science and mental game. It would be a selection combining all ages of modern chess, all styles, all schools. A true orchestra of thought.

José Raúl Capablanca

Capablanca on the Malecón in Old Havana (AI)

Uvencio Blanco Hernández

19.XI.2025.-

He was a child prodigy and he is surrounded by legends. In his best times he was considered to be unbeatable and by many he was reckoned to be the greatest chess talent of all time: Jose Raul Capablanca, born 1888 in Havana.

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