Madrid Redux: last two days

Tuesday April 28

With two days left in Madrid, I wanted to pull the cork, tilt the city to my mouth, and gulp it all down. Fortunately, I have developed a few scruples and restraint. I set my greedy impulses aside and considered the time tactically. I wanted to revisit the Prado and wander, wide open, through those hallowed halls and I wanted to explore Fundación MAPFRE, located almost directly across the broad avenue from the Prado. Excellent! I could dedicate my time in the morning to FM and my afternoon to the Prado.

Another gift to myself was to seek out a well-reviewed restaurant. No more lackluster stops for fuel, I wanted the full-on Madrid midday meal experience. I planned to stop my art binge no sooner than 2:30, taxi to my chosen eatery and eat an extravagant and leisurely meal. Sure, I’d return to the Prado in a post-meal stupor, but it might help me settle down, let me focus my gaze in a deeper way. These final two days I didn’t want to hop around like a flea, frantic to sate my appetite for beauty, called away from one painting by the wink and shine of another in the corner of my eye.

With my plans made I ducked into Crusts, the café/bakery around the corner from the Orfila Hotel.  I ordered a latte and croissant.

I took out one of my remaining postcards and drew the infanta Marianna of Austria on the back. It was a very pleasant and satisfying way to spend the time before the gallery opens.

When I asked for the check, a busboy nearby scowled and corrected me. “La cuenta,” he admonished in a loud, slow voice as if I was a recalcitrant and lazy student who only fails from lack of effort. He might be right.

I walked to MAPFRE with that heightened awareness of the mundane and the refrain ‘the last time, the last time’ humming below my skin. I threaded my way through clots of tourists, couples arm in arm (a frequent sight here), and men in suits, bent like herons over their phones as they thumbed texts.

I went to the wrong MAPFRE location first, but as long as I’d gone in and put my backpack in a locker, I took the elevator down to the photography exhibition, a retrospective of Garry Winogrand’s work. The mirror and metal reflections of the elevator’s interior disoriented me. I took this elevator selfie, trying to identify the control panel through the phone screen.

The exhibition itself was similarly disorienting. MAPFRE’s comment summed it up for me; “During the chaotic 1960s, Winogrand photographed at numerous political demonstrations and his work came to express a sense of national disintegration.”  The titles were the geographic locations and the year.*

Fairly quickly I had enough of bleakness and walked over a block to the next MAPFRE outpost to see exhibition done in conjunction with the Musée d’Orsay, Swan Song.

Don’t I know you? was the first thing I thought when I saw Gustave Doré‘s Defeated. Yes, in Paris last year. It stopped me then, and it pulled my eye again, here in Madrid. The sense of numbed despair, the way the world and ephemeral beauty spin on, oblivious.

Another work that fascinated me was a slain Able, Cain’s doomed brother. I still feel a little cultural vertigo when I consider that it was the farmer who slaughtered his brother the sheepherder.

It wasn’t a sense of verisimilitude, death isn’t this pretty. it was the light on his shoulder and thrust of his hip, the out-flung arm. More like a glorious depiction of post-coital lassitude, like the way Bernini jumbled up the erotic with religious ecstasy in his Saint Theresa.  All this is lacking is a smirking angel with a spear. 

Several of the history paintings drew me in, like Ernest Meissonier’s Napoleon doomed assault on Russia. I was fascinated by the general’s expressions, how many ways the artist made hopelessness visible.

This one of Joan d’Arc leading her troops was the opposite – all motion and blind faith in action. But that’s not why I couldn’t stop looking at it.

In person, the red lances were these wild exclamations, and the color was richer, and each face has its own particular individual expression, and – well, right here, that’s the reason I chase paint. It’s the difference between the flavor of a bright green snap of a fresh pea, just pulled off the vine and popped out of its shell, and a dreary can of gray-green pea mush. Go find this – it lives at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris.

For lunch, I taxied to a place heartily  recommended by a NYC friend. La Castela http://restaurantelacastela.com

Of course when I got there, at 2:30, the joint was full to the brim. Come back in 30 minutes, said the sympathetic waiter. Instead of giving up and eating another pastry in a coffee shop, I took a slow stroll around the block. They did indeed find me a little table amid those already happily occupied with big groups who had tables pushed together, and four tops with business men in suits. Lots and lots of laughter and talk. They brought me a dish of olives and another dish of bread and my sparkling water. I had a sort of hot sausage appetizer that was either crazy delicious (or tasted fantastic because by 3:45 I was starving). I ordered the hake and it came like this –

I think those are stripes of tomato, kalamata olive, and an olive oil and green herb sauce. So good. Divine. I ate every bite though it was twice what I was used to. I even had dessert, which I ordered by pointing to a nearby happy diner’s plate.  That’s a mille–feuille –  crackly layers of puff pastry with fresh whipped cream inside- with an apricot sauce with fresh berries on the side. It looks substantial, but it was light with just a moment of crunch before it dissolved on the tongue. Imagine an edible feather that by some miracle is delicious.

From here back to the dear Prado, knowing it was open until 8pm.  Drifted around, and now, these many weeks later, I don’t remember every painting I revisited, except I am certain I went back to Velásquez and Mengs.

In the rotunda with the statuary of the Muses I came across a couple that were welded together, head, shoulder, hip, and thigh. It took a moment for me to realize, no, it wasn’t the intimacy of passion, they were sharing an audio guide.Though perhaps that is another kind of shared passion.

On the long, weary but happy walk back to the Orfila Hotel, I came across this ingenious poster for a play by Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen. Brilliant graphic art.

At this point in my trip, I finished the audio book Forgery of Venus, by Michael Gruber. http://michaelgruberbooks.com/books/  Well worth your time to read or listen to, and Madrid is the perfect town for it. This should give you of an idea of why I loved it.  “Gruber writes passionately and knowledgeably about art and its history- and he writes brilliantly about the shadowy lines that blur reality and unreality.”  – Publishers Weekly.

*The thing is, the camera lies. It excels in capturing an expression, or a composed portrait or a candid scene. Those moments could be beautiful or awkward or horrifying.  But it isn’t the truth, any more than cable news is the truth. It’s just a forced glimpse, and the lens works both ways – it’s as much a flash of the photographer’s psyche as anything. Having said that, Jacques Henri Lartigue’s work enchants me and has, ever since Barry Lategan introduced me to his photographs in 1972.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Madrid Unfiltered, Redux

Monday, April 27

I woke up after a night of utter peace and quiet in Hotel Orfila. My desire to carry on viewing art was fully restored. Sleep is underrated. It’s better than gold.

Walking through the Salamanca district streets is like walking through Buckhead on Sunday morning, instead of walking though Bourbon Street on Saturday night. From now until I head to the airport Thursday, it’s not just about racing over to do a cannonball dive into the Prado, but appreciating Madrid itself.

Stopped in a little patisserie and tried to order a latte without Google Translate. Ha. I ended up with two shots of espresso in two cups, and when I asked and gestured for milk, he added hot water. I ended up drinking it like that because he agreed with whatever I said, and the line was long and getting longer. The only thing worse than a country full of Spaniards that don’t speak English are the ones who think they can.  Lovely walk over to the Prado  all the same. The croissant I got to go with the latte I didn’t have was luscious. As crumbs fell from my napkin I thought the sparrows here must be the happiest on earth.

Here’s my path to the Prado

I wondered if the Prado would still seem so fabulous now that I’ve put in so much time there and seen so much. Not to worry. It was maybe even better. It was completely wonderful. Like spending time with someone you absolutely adore.  I spent a good chunk of time looking at Las Meninas from the farthest point across the room. I stood beside the guard’s chair and looked at values, shapes, and volumes, seeing it as a whole. I went back to the Meng portraits and just drank them in. Here’s  Antonio Pascual de Borbón y Sajonia, infante de España, 1767.

I sat and drew three postcards (NOTE: I beat them all home).  I took a good long look at Sorollo’s three boys on the beach.  I went back to that room of 18th-century enormous narrative paintings and drew the prince’s dog. I got really wrapped up in Velasquez’s Mars,  who has a sinewy body and eyes with a thousand yard stare. More like a real soldier, not just an aggressive brute in thrall to Venus. He reminds me of Robert.

I walked out a few blocks in front of the museum into the neighborhood and took a chance on a little restaurant. Pah. It was like mediocre home cooking, but at least it was cheap and the server was really nice.

Went back to the Prado (they have to stamp your ticket at the Education desk so you can reenter. It’s super easy but don’t forget.) At one point I found myself really warming up to Goya, especially his black period. The most adorable thing I saw was a group of grammar school age kids. They all wore white smocks with construction paper paint palettes glued to them, and headbands with paper candles circling their heads. The chaperones with them wore the same getup.  Here’s a blurry image.

Goya famously did his paintings at night wearing a hat with candles stuck to the brim – in fact, there’s a portrait of him in that rig.So they were baby Goyas, like our kids were little pilgrims and Indians at Thanksgiving. It was unspeakably cute and totally Spanish.

I didn’t leave until nearly 7 and limped back. Got ‘dinner’ at Starbucks – don’t judge. I wanted a chai latte and there’s no having a kettle in this fancy room. Not even a microwave.  I had an orange with me, and I bought a little slice of lemon cake. Voila, balanced diet.

Homesickness hit me hard for a few days, but it’s fine now.  I’m so close to boarding the plane  – three days  – I can smell the jet fuel.

Goodbye Lisboa, Hello again Madrid

Days 7 & 8, Saturday & Sunday

I waited for my Uber taxi in Largo do Rato park. On every bench people were bent over notebooks, scribbling, and only gradually did I realize they were all sketching. Enforced stillness and attention, while waiting on Uber to pick me up, may give me some of my clearest and best memories.

The Last Ship, by Sting https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6X_2jhIs7LM turned out to be the song that carried me through Lisbon. No real idea why, except it’s haunting, full of melancholy and yearning.

My ambient playlist carried me through museums at a drifting pace that fit my desire to look and linger, or stop to stare long and hard. Especially Finally Moving by Pretty Lights https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sk9XYQMRiLY, and Anthem, by Emancipator https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PEGDGxZdzA.

For my last hurrah, I returned to the Calouste Gulbenkian Museum. They were out of English language audio guides again, but just as I purchased my ticket a man handed in his English language audio headset. Score! On this trip I was impressed by the singularity of expressions in the portraits.

Six examples –

I loved this fun couple – so like me and Robert.

Ate lunch in the nice museum café. This time, with scattered light rain, the outside patio was almost deserted. I sat outside at a table under a large umbrella, watching the ducks. I should have kept my eye on the thieving pigeons. One jumped on my table and made a grab for my pastéis de nata right off my plate. I flapped my museum guide to shoo it away and gave it my best Border collie stare. It eventually gave up. My other complaint – a visitor wore a perfume as pervasive and overpowering as Vicks VapoRub. I took evasive action and tried to avoid her trajectory, but I was sneezing and breathing through my mouth by the end. I could always tell when she entered/exited a room. I tried not to make scowly faces or glare but fell short a few times.

Afterward, Uber dropped me off at the park, and I watched this merry band prepare for the May 25th parades. park band.

The next morning I was up and out, after bidding a fond farewell to my Casa Amora B&B hosts. hosts http://www.casaamora.com/en/hotel-overview.html  I can heartily recommend this place if you are looking for accommodations in Lisbon. I am considering writing them a sonnet for Trip Advisor. They earned it.

I Ubered to the airport (14 Euros) in plenty of time and shuffled aboard my Iberia airline flight. At departure time, we remained on the runway in Lisbon, our scheduled departure delayed due to maintenance on runways in Madrid, a fact explained by the pilot in a most entertaining fashion. Here’s part of his speech over the intercom: “Why, you ask yourself, if this man knows these things, have we boarded? Well, I will tell you. I know as well as anyone of you that waiting in your seats on a plane that is not progressing is torture, but! If we are prepared and in readiness to depart and another flight is not, we move up a space in the line, and so we wait.” About twenty minutes later we took off, the flight itself blessedly uneventful.

About twenty minutes later we took off, the flight itself blessedly uneventful.

I appreciate the decision of the city of Madrid to impose a flat rate of 30 Euros on all taxis rides from the airport to the city. I have learned that my pronunciation of Spanish is so inept that all taxi drivers grunt and look baffled until I hold up my iPhone with the address and route visible on Google maps. Then they nod and head in the right direction. I don’t know if my accent is really that bad (likely) or they are feigning ignorance in hopes of driving a rube around in circles to beef up the fare. Once I pull out the iPhone and Google map way, clarity and honesty prevails. I recommend it.

Checked into the 19th-century Belle Époque Hotel Orfila, which was all that is grace, elegance, and charm. I knew I’d be weary by the end of my trip and hoped for a bit of cosseting. I way overshot the mark. Lucky me.
The man at the front desk wore a swallowtail coat, like a head footman in a regency novel. Turned out he learned English the summer he worked in Georgia at Six Flags, and said ‘Welcome y’all,’ in a credible southern accent. Small world.

The hotel had tasteful art everywhere and antique furniture. Swanky, with the patina of many decades, and linen sheets like my grandmother’s. The ladies on staff all looked like Ralph Lauren models, Spanish Vogue division, and were discreet and polite. I’m guessing in their spare time they practiced the appropriate curtsey for various ranks of nobility.

I looked like the travel-worn, scrappy hobo that I am and they were so gracious, it didn’t matter. Up to my quiet, luxurious little room, with chintz Louis XIV chairs, walnut sécrétoire and a bathroom that boasted a matching toilet and bidet and a Jacuzzi tub. I unpacked.

Though it overlooked the garden, the double-paned windows were so efficient I barely heard a murmur.

After basking in the charm of my room, I ran through the rain to get a chai tea and have a quick look around. I’m familiar with the Salamanca district because my favorite church (for spiritual practice, not art) was not far away. St George’s Anglican church, on the corner of Calle Núñez de Balboa, had wisteria over the front gate and a massive fig tree spreading shade over a back courtyard. 

Back at the hotel for the night,  a courtesy plush robe and slippers had been set out for me, along with a little linen floor mat next to the bed, I guess so my feet never had to touch the carpet. Chocolate was on the pillow with a handwritten card noting the weather for the next day.

I looked for laundry info. It was on a shelf next to the safe in the walnut shelved closets (Plural! Closets!). For double-digit euros, you could have your slacks dry-cleaned and pressed. There was no ‘wash your yoga pants and hoodie’ option, so I busted out a packet of Woolite, scrubbed them in the sink and hung them on the gold-plated towel rack to dry. I thought, boy, this will shock the maids. Maybe it did, but they were too couth to indicate by look or gesture. They probably didn’t give it a thought. I set my clothes and shoes out on a chair for the next day.The mattress was comfortable, the sheets were as soft as a basket of kittens. I had a twinge of feeling a little too Granny Clampett for this joint, but I thought I’ll get used to it. And sure enough, I did.