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.

 

 

Bela Lisboa, Day Six

Friday, April 24

It’s pouring rain, and a good time to catch up on blogging. I talked about art for an hour this morning with Luis, who introduced me to some of his favorite Portuguese artists. Here are three websites for the curious.
Contemporary realism, of an unapologetically sexual in your face kind. Don’t click if you are a prude. You have been warned. http://barahonapossollo.com/

This guy blows images into buildings with explosives. Bam! http://www.alexandrefarto.com/index.php?page=video&video=16

Sprezzatura skills with wire creates sculpture of unworldly grace. http://hifructose.com/2013/04/04/illusory-wire-sculptures-by-david-oliveira/

When the downpour turns to a drizzle, I walked half a block and into Fundação Arpad Szenes-vieira Da Silva,  a modern art museum, if by modern you mean Warchol and Lichtenstein. For those of you who know me, I went because the ticket was free, and my B&B hosts strongly urged me to attend. Had a moment of interest with these typewriters. The title is a favorite; Infinite amount of monkeys + Infinite amount of typewriters + Infinite amount of time = Hamlet.

I goofed around with Pistoletto’s Bottiglia per terra Bottle

but otherwise, I begrudged it my time.

I hiked through wet streets to the basilica, which, compared to St Roch, was pretty tame. Walked around for a moment and then it closed and I was politely shown the door.  Just like in Madrid. No more tardy visits. When it comes to basilicas, go first thing in the morning.

Spitting rain again, I called Uber and got the ‘high tariff ‘ message, but noticed it said ‘ending in 2 minutes’ . Okay. I waited a couple of minutes in the church doorway, tried again and got the normal rate. Just a tip. Sometimes pausing is your friend.

I was determined to visit the 19th Century ship-museum, the Frigate Don Fernando II e Glória. It’s in dry dock on the banks of Tagus River, in Cacilhas. Directly across from where I had lunch yesterday.

Uber arrived, and off we sped across the May 25^th bridge, designed by the same firm that did the Golden Gate in San Francisco. The driver was a native and life-long Lisboan. Took the time to carefully to explain to me how I could safely and easily return on the train or ferry. There’s no Uber where I’m going.

The frigate lay high and dry, in a moat of cars. In dry dock, it looked abandoned and ungainly. I was the only person there. I walked up the gangplank, toward a tiny wood kiosk with a window. I heard a voice behind me and a young lad with red cheeks darted past me, opened the door to the hut, motioned me back and slid open the wooden hatch. “May I help you?”

He sold me a ticket. No more audioguides, he explained, because the water is not good for wires. Hmmm, I thought, looking around at the river and the sea. I walked around the deck recalling Elizabeth Essex sea-faring books http://www.elizabethessex.com, feeling uneasy but psyched at being the only living soul aboard. I am sure Portuguese school children are herded through here in droves, but not today.

Except for the artillery, everything was made of wood or rope coiled neatly and woven in patterns.

Below the top deck, the captain’s cabin looked like a Mayfair drawing room with a very low ceiling, so peculiar.

The ship itself looks sleek and elegantly made to my ignorant eye. It may have wallowed in the water like a hog, but it was clean and smelled of wood and hemp.

Below deck, I thought I saw other tourists and but they were manikins dressed as seamen. Not bland-faced models dressed up, but manikins fully realized and quite disturbing. Spooky. A trio dressed as passengers, a father, mother, and child, were so creepy George Romero would cast them in a heartbeat.

I descended further below decks, completely alone. There was a small working office with a TV running and the paper detritus pinned up and spread on the desk but no one was there. Twilight Zone. I had a subliminal sense that a ship ought to be moving, that being still and motionless was wrong. The way a corpse is stiff once the life goes out of it. The parade of eerie mannequins continued, frozen figures slumped in hammocks, a seaman with a howling face clamped with iron manacles at his throat and ankles “for strict discipline”, a cook who fed up to six hundred out of three big stew pots, a sick bay with a grimacing patient, an officer reading in his bunk with a crucifix on the wall.

There were cannon balls stowed neatly in racks and they reminded me of the true purpose of this vessel. Not a pleasure yacht.

I had a new respect for ship builders, all the way back to Noah. I knew that though this vessel dwarfed me, at sea it would bob in the water like a cork, a speck in the immensity of the ocean.

I climbed up and out, and the red-cheeked boy popped up to show me down the gangplank and helpfully pointed to the ferry, 150 meters away. He agreed that the mannequins were scary and claimed their faces were modeled on the actual laborers who rebuilt the ship. Maybe that’s why they look like corpses. I found them distracting, but the ship was a thing of latent beauty.  I bought my ferry ticket, climbed aboard, and in only a short time – ten minutes maybe – we docked in Lisbon.

I was a few blocks from the Mercado da Ribeira, and Santini’s calls to me. Plus, time for lunch. I wander the market periphery and settle on a spot that offers black pork cheeks on sweet potato puree. In a bowl. Very happy with my choice.

Heading back I checked on a souvenir shop with unique Portuguese items that the B&B recommended. Loved it! An artist mother and her daughter ran it. I bought some tee shirts she designed featuring the Cranach version of Eve tempting Adam, but with a Pastéis de Nata. Good call, Casa Amora.

Tomorrow is Lisbon’s independence day, May 25^th That shop will be closed and there will be parades and parties. I’ll let you know if it’s another day like King’s Day in Amsterdam when I should hunker down and avoid the crowds, or something more pleasant.

 

 

 

Bela Lisboa, Day Five

Thursday, April 23

Listening to an audiobook as I roam around is a big part of my experience.  It’s the way I cope with long weeks of silence, the kind that comes with not knowing the language. Writing scratches the itch I have to communicate beyond ‘I want to buy ten stamps, please,’ but I also want to hear English. Intelligent, lively, thoughtful English. Joanna Bourne’s http://www.joannabourne.com/ books are excellent for this since she’s as much adventure as romance, it takes place on the peninsula, and the audiobook reader is superb.

Today my destination was Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, in no small part because they have a major Bosch triptych, The Temptation of St Anthony.Think back to my experience of viewing the Bosch in Madrid – vying with the crowd for more than a glimpse. Not here. People came in twos and threes, and in between I sat before it, alone. Examining a painting this complex and rich, with time to view each detail and then step back and see it as a whole, is a genuine luxury.

A few details;

After an hour, I drifted through the other rooms, soaking in the peacefulness of art viewed without jostle. That’s not an unmixed blessing; these storehouses of treasures need supporting, and seeing the other patrons was like looking in a mirror – definitely senior and preponderantly female.  I winced a little bit, not because of aging, per se, but because I belong to an identifiable type; formerly fierce, once-upon-a-time outrageous women, now earnest, harmless, and gray-haired. Grandmotherly with an artistic bent.

Several works caught my eye, despite feeling somewhat over-saturated in religiosity. This Tiepolo is not only vigorous and lively, it’s a way of imagining the Flight into Egypt that doesn’t feature dirt roads, sand, or donkeys.

This Salome looks properly ambitious and cold-blooded, instead of the decadent slut she is too often portrayed. She’d make a credible Lady MacBeth, too.

Finally, this Mary looked like a virgin teen mother, still a child herself, instead of simpering or featureless as an egg.

I was struck by a large painting of animals crossing a ford, in particular, a shaggy white goat. Took pleasure in doing a little drawing. I used sienna and umber conté crayons and a little white chalk.

Stumbled over a little exhibition devoted to red chalk drawings. Nice.

Had lunch on the terrace overlooking the mighty river Tagus.

Pigeons are aggressive. I saw a dozen pigeons converge on a tray someone left on a table. They went all Animal Planet, like vultures fighting over a carcass.

Back inside and upstairs to look at work by Portuguese painters. This view of hell is much grimmer and less hallucinatory than Bosch. Good for a month of nightmares.

The day had flown by. Ready for some gelato, I headed towards the Santini’s I’d visited on day one. After I’d walked fifteen minutes, I paused to look inside the Mercado da Ribeira, Lisbon’s sleek indoor food market. Behold, I spy an outpost of the very same Santini’s. I ordered a chocolate, caramel and coconut combo if you must know. Worth every calorie.

Ubered back to the B&B and slept in peace, which I don’t take for granted and truly appreciate.