CHASING PAINT

Madrid Unfiltered, the Finale

June 5, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

The last day has that mix of longing and farewell, a foot on either side of the threshold.

Here’s what I did the last full day in Madrid. I washed my comfy Athleta yoga pants in the sink, so they’d a have full day and overnight to dry. I’ll be wearing them tomorrow on the flight home. They look respectable and feel like jammies. Pretty much my ideal.

I popped in my ear buds and fired up my happy Madrid music mix – the one that can propel me uphill, no matter how tired I am, and flip my emotional switch to the gratitude setting. So instead of ‘woe is me, it’s the last day,’ I’m bopping down the streets thinking, ‘lucky me, I spent April in the Prado.’

I started at Crusts for a croissant with jam to go with my delicious latte.

My walking route took me past a tiny outpost of the famed Florence perfumerie, Santa Maria Novella. Bought a flask of Angels of Florence cologne for my daughter and assorted scented soaps. Clipped the bag handles to the mini-carabiner that’s hooked on the loop on the top of my Longchamps bag.

ZIpping into the no waiting side of the otherwise long Prado ticket lines never lost its appeal. Still a thrill. Inside, I followed the map I’d superimposed on the room by room guides they hand out at Information desk using colored markers and notes in the corners. Checked my marginalia and took my time revisiting particular paintings, saying goodbye and thank you. My mood was 51% more appreciative than elegiac, but still – Unless these works tour, I will not see them again. Apologies to Alfred Lord Tennyson, but better to have discovered and loved a work of art and have to part from it, than never to have seen it at all.

Among the unexpected pleasures of the day was finding this man at work.

I wandered off into a side room, and drew Mars from the Velásquez painting on a postcard to send to my much missed my husband.

It’s in the same room with Ruben’s copy of Titian’s the Rape of Europa. Look to the left and you see a part of it in the background of The Spinners by Velasquez, one of his last works. That’s one of the wonderful things about seeing great works of art hung on the walls of major museums. Sometimes you witness a private conversation between artists, along with ebb and rise of the tide of visitors. Thank you, curators.

Eventually, I put away my pencil and headed to lunch at La Trainera. Old world gentleman maitre d’ pulled out my chair and handed me the menu with a flourish. I dined well, on what amounted to more hake in a tomato sauce, served in a clay dish with shrimps and mollusks scattered over the top. I also ordered asparagus picturing skinny green wands. I got this instead.

I loved the bespoke china plates with their ‘yo ho heave ho’ logo.

Afterwards, I headed back to the Prado. This time, my attention was caught by a small portrait of a man by Velásquez.

The wall card speculated that it is a self-portrait, done when he first arrived at court. I can see it. I stood and drew him, for an hour at least. I am no portraitist, but I gave it my all, and was not disappointed. Mostly I loved looking into his eyes.

I took my leave of the Prado, grateful that it exists. On the way home I visited the church on the hill behind the Prado.

It was peaceful and housed a multitude of Marys, like this holy lady of Spain.

Wended my way back to hotel Orfila to pack, pay the bill, and prepare for the day of travel home. Asked the nice desk clerk to take a photo of my lounging in the comfortable and charming lobby.

Yeah, I loved it.

I’ll end this trip with five things I observed in Madrid.

People sit on low walls outside the Prado and on the rims of fountains in the plazas. Under 40, they are all looking at their phones. Over 60 they are all smoking.

Walking five plus miles every day improves digestion and hurts feet.

No one speaks more than half a dozen English words. When you don’t speak Spanish, they nod or smile, and talk louder and faster. Google Translate is the answer for the linguistically inept.

Graffiti has thrown its net of tags on every surface of every building.

The heron curve of head bent, spine curved, elbow crooked is ubiquitous and universal. Everyone is texting.

Adios, beautiful Spanish city. You are justly proud.

Madrid Redux: last two days

May 24, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

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

May 9, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

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

May 2, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

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

April 28, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

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

April 28, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

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.

Bela Lisboa, April 22, Day Four

April 27, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Wednesday April 22,

This time I took Uber straight out of the gate, to the glorious Calouste Gulbenkian Museum. http://museu.gulbenkian.pt/Museu/en/Homepage\

My priority was to preserve every shred of cartilage I have left in my hips and knees. It was uptown, and in Lisbon, they mean straight up. I swapped a thirty-minute uphill climb for ten minutes by vehicle for 3 euros. A bargain! I wanted to smack myself in the head. I could’ve had this little bit of ease all along. Once again, pain teaches me what pride won’t let me learn.

The Gulbenkian was named for a Turkish oil man who loved art as much as breathing, and made this provision for a home for works he called his children. * I have not inquired into his family life. The man had exquisite taste and threw not only money but his skill at long and complicated negotiations into his acquisitions. The museum building was thoughtfully designed to conserve and show the artwork in the best way for viewing, and the presentation of objects and paintings was exactly as I would wish.

It didn’t just have paintings by old masters, it had some of their best work. Very Frick-ish feel, though not jumbled in a house rejiggered to serve as a public venue, yet it retains the sense of a single discerning and, yes, obsessed, eye. My kind of guy.

They were out of the English audio guides. I plunged in. I whipped through the Egyptian room, slowed a little bit by the coins display. I usually can barely see such small objects, but these were suspended and lit in such a way that even I could make out the intricate designs clearly. Below is an example – the coin was about the size of my little fingernail. I don’t know what it commemorated when it was struck in 400-350 BC, but the couple looks pretty frisky. I ended up spending much more time with textiles, porcelains, and glass that I have in other collections. I loved the Portuguese patterned oriental carpet with a design of the ships on water – you could see the east and west collide.

Also, due to his Turkish heritage, Gulbenkian has objects from that part of the world. A fifth-century glass beaker and glass lamp from mosques amazed me – think of the odds of glass surviving those ages.

By the time I reached western European art, I’d slowed down and fallen into the moment. This was a detail of a smallish portrait of St. Joseph. The whiskers captivated me. Northern renaissance, of course. My people.Loves of the Centaurs, by Rubens. And by love, he means more a verb than emotion.

And this portrait of a woman who, fully dressed, personified carnal flirtation with a look and a single gesture.

No way I could walk past this Weenix painting of hunting trophies.

I’ve spent months painting rabbits, some more successfully than other, and this is what I aspired to. This is what a pelt should look like.

I ended up circling back to this painting multiple times.

After my lunch in the downstairs cafeteria (vegetable soup, fresh fruit, the ubiquitous pastis de natal) I sketched just the rabbit for an hour. Made a couple of attempts, on more than one page of my sketchbook, using pencils and Conte crayon. Mostly I wanted an excuse to look at how Weenix did this.

Saw many portraits that were unique in the liveliness of expression of the sitters. Cracked up over this one –

“Everybody’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.” – ZZ Top.

Loved this little Sargent of the boat under the willows.

I had lunch and then explored the grounds – art students were sketching, scattered across the lawn and back garden vying with the resident ducks and pigeons for the green space.

Meandered around in the gardens, watched baby ducklings paddling in formation behind the mama duck on the pond, then went back inside to revisit some of my favorites.

Stayed until 5, then foolishly imagined walking back would be downhill. Nope.

Should’ve called Uber.

* The collection nearly ended up in the states. This respected collection was shown in both London and Washington DC. Curators in both cities courted him in hopes of the coup of winning the ultimate future of the collection. During WWII the British government managed to offend him and they were out. He ended up in Lisbon, and ultimately decided to leave his collection here.

Bela Lisboa, Day Three, part two

April 24, 2015 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Part Two

Belcanto http://belcanto.pt/EN/ welcomed me. The Maître de was like the Jeeves of Lisbon. He shimmered around being helpful and unobtrusive. I ordered a la carte – Wave Breaking to start, (translated as ‘bivalves, coastal prawns, seawater and seaweed ‘sand’) and Dip in the Sea (‘sea bass with seaweed and bivalves’) for my entrée. He approved, and asked if I had any food allergies. When I said no alcohol, he didn’t curl his lip or sigh. He went and checked. Good man, because one of their signature freebies turns out to be an ‘inside out martini’. Happily for me, they were willing to adapt. The waitstaff deserve props for being game and throwing no ‘tude. Another thing I really liked about this place was the small waiting area that had a phrase by Portuguese writer Fernando Pessoa, “To be great, be whole,” spelled out in light coming from the spaces created by missing books. Books! Ironic, given the words were made of absences.

I won’t keep you in suspense, the food tasted great – really top shelf. What was interesting was the amount of attention paid to deceit. Food as trompe–l’œil. They were into trickery and tomfoolery, and they liked explaining it afterward. Imagine Penn and Teller as chefs de cuisine.

Here’s the real crew on the job.

First thing they brought out looked like a tangerine-colored candy fireball. It balanced on a short handled spoon they rested on an indentation in a stone. It was a thin shell around a liquid they promised wouldn’t actually have alcohol in it. They didn’t exactly lie. It tasted faintly like vanilla and cherries. It was their riff on a faux aperitif. I would have preferred to skip it.

An olive trio followed. A tempura-esque fried olive (I could have gladly eaten a dozen of these), a soft shell olive that was olive-colored and shaped, but had a melting texture, and the aforementioned inside out martini, which, sans booze, was like a tablespoon of olive puree.

More trickery followed. Something that had the exact texture of an almond rocher, including the gold foil cup, but was fois gras and nuts with a fragment of gold leaf. I could have eaten these until all the chefs went home. I forget what they called the thing in the back, but it reminded me of fried chicken. The little half moon in the front was tasty and threw me because the visual matched the flavor.

They delivered bread and butter with due ceremony. There were choices of breads and three kinds of butter. Resistance was futile with the olive roll.

Now we come to what I actually ordered. All of the above was just foreplay. Wave Breaking, a diorama of tiny morsels of various sea creatures punctuated with dots carved out of green apple, and a foam that the server said was part seawater. Crumbles of dehydrated seaweed made the sand. By now I am in the swing of having fun with this. It’s not food to satisfy physical appetite so much as to engage the mind and encourage you to be playful. Well, as playful as a joint with a head chef named David Jesus (I am not making this up) can be.

I ate my seafood morsels and though they were small, the flavor was mighty. Especially the mussels. I remember thinking how I didn’t realize that fresh was a flavor until now. The immense amount of briny goodness in those tiny bites was startling.

The sea bass, aka Dip in the Sea, brought along his friends, and the actual amount of fish was impressive. It was poached in seawater, and was moist and tender to a degree outside of my experience, except for a butterfish I once ate in Hawaii.

The raspberry was another bit of cleverness. It was looked real, but it was reconstructed, reformed and chilled – pure liquid essence of raspberry, with a touch of wasabi.

Dessert was called, with surprising directness, banana, chocolate and peanut. Robert will recognize this layout from The Getty Center, in LA.

Can’t say it was visually appealing, but it tasted just fine, though it required more plate scraping than I like to do in public. The peanut was another decoy. It was made out of a hardened substance reminiscent of a peanut butter cup, but not as sweet. The chocolate was excellent, intense and neither sweet nor bitter – balanced on the edge of both. Those banana slices were fakes. More like a cold puree with a faint banana flavor formed into discs and dotted with faux seeds.

They brought a wooden Chinese puzzle box for the finale. It pulled apart into three drawers filled with cocoa shells, and each level presented a pair of ….something. The top level was said to be olive, but it tasted sweet and crunchy, just like a gumdrop. Okay by me.

The middle layer was candied black garlic. Summoning all my bravery, I put one in my mouth and chewed twice. Gah. So bad. Nasty. Absolutely foul. I spit it into my hand as discretely as I could manage, only to realize there was nowhere to put it. Desperate, I dropped it back in the box, slimy with drool. Sorry! But no. Hell no. I don’t want a mouthful of sugary garlic to wipe the excellent flavors I’ve just experienced off my tongue. Lesson learned. When creative food goes wrong, it’s a spectacular crash.

Fortunately, the bottom level had a pair of raspberry and chocolate morsels that were sublime. All’s well that ends well.

I decided a postprandial walk was just the ticket. And by ‘walk’ I mean mountain climbing with steps, no sherpa. That’s how Lisbon rolls, people. Believe you me, I was grateful that Jessica ran me up and down those stairs at the gym.

I headed to the big square beyond the grand arch. Mafalda called it Lisbon’s St. Mark’s Square. A tourist kindly took my photo by the Tagus River.

Afterward, I walked down the street of trim, braid, buttons and lace, and did a little window shopping. Finally headed towards my B&B, following the Google map. It was a long, hard slog that felt longer when I realized it was mostly straight up. By the time I came through my door, I was aching from hip to toes.

Time to call the cavalry, aka Uber. I promise myself I’ll start using the service tomorrow. Spend several hours working out a plan of what to see on Thursday – proximity is crucial. Dinner is cake and tea and tangerines, and I’m in bed and asleep in no time.

Bela Lisboa, Day Three

April 24, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Bela Lisboa, April 21 – In two parts.

Part One

Enjoyed a varied and tasty breakfast in the walled garden of my B&B Casa Amora. www.casaamora.com/ TripAdvisor has never steered me wrong. There is a reason these guys are the number one guesthouse in Lisbon and I’m delighted to add my voice to the laudatory chorus. They manage their transient guests with good humor and skill, arranging a tour here, dealing with airlines there, offering dining and shopping suggestions tailored to individual tastes, with no pressure. They encourage the timid and marvel at the adventures of the bold. Total pros.

Headed out, overjoyed to be going downhill. If I had to pick one word for the topography of this town it would be steep. I saw a plain gray stone church, and, on a whim, pushed open the door. The interior was painted Tiffany blue and white. Intricate versions of The Stations of the Cross marched around the periphery, made of classic blue and white painted Portuguese tile.

The ceiling was elaborately painted, with the Holy Spirit as a dove in the center in a nimbus of yellow light.

Three people came in at different times while I was poking around. They dropped a coin in the poor box, prayed in front of one of the altars, and left for work. I was respectful and discreet, and they paid no attention to me. It was lovely to see the ritual part of spiritual in daily life. I lit a candle for a departed friend and pushed on.

I stopped in a park with an overlook and took a moment to stop and gaze at the city spread out before me. As I turned to go, a man playing guitar for passersby picked out the opening to Stairway to Heaven. I put two euros in his cap.

My next stop was the Museum of Sacred Art, adjacent to the Sao Roque Church. There was blindingly intricate lace for priest’s cuffs, gold embroidered vestments,

ornate silver gilt candle sticks, painted wood statues, – my favorite was the Pious Pelican,

and variations on saints, martyrs, virgins and one particularly dissipated looking cherub.

And the man himself, St Roch. I don’t know why I love that hat on the skull, but I do.

I was absorbed and fell into my observation zone. It’s very meditative and I lose track of time.

Afterward, I thought I’d take a quick look at the church. Holy cow. You know when a flash bulb goes off in your face? Probably not, unless you are over forty, but I digress. The point is you are temporarily blinded by the light. Well, that’s what this was like. Plain as a paper bag on the outside, beyond gaudy by everything baroque could throw at you on the inside.

There’s a poem by John Keats, On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer, that sprang to mind. No, really. It starts out,

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

and ends this way –

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortés when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific -and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise –
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Perhaps it was ‘realms of gold’ since I was swimming in the stuff. Or the conquistador reference, that’s where a chunk of the loot to finance this came from. Or the fabulous phrase, ‘wild surmise.’ I think the whites of my eyes were showing. I stared, stupefied by the sheer level of in-your-face.

This Jesuit church is awash in gold.They went all in, and then they threw in some more.

There were glazed tiles, gilt woodwork, marble, carving, silver gilt, multicolored painted figures, and oil paintings galore. One chapel featured what looked like a couple of thousand cherubs. The interior was a visual assault, a body slam of gleam and dazzle. It made excessive seem like it’s just not trying hard enough.

It’s one of the earliest Jesuit churches, built in the 16th century.

Fun fact – The most notorious of the several baroque is the 18th-century Chapel of St. John the Baptist (Capela de São João Baptista). That built this bad boy in Rome, then disassembled, shipped, and reconstructed it in São Roque. At the time it was the most expensive chapel in Europe. Apparently, God loved it, because this church was unharmed by the infamous earthquake/flood/fire disaster of 1755.

I lit a candle for my family and then my time was up – I had a lunch reservation at 12:30.

I reluctantly pried myself away, and stumbled the few blocks to Belcanto, hoping the service would be as welcoming as the food was inventive.

Bela Lisboa, Day Two

April 22, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Lisbon April 20

I’d booked a day tour with Mafalda Corregedor, a guide highly regarded on TripAdvisor. She was all that and a bag of chips. Smart, friendly, informed, and feisty. She drove for a part of it and we walked the rest. According to Fitbit I did eight miles, and I swear all of it uphill. I am beat, but is was well worth it.

It was the best introduction I’ve ever had to a city, thanks to upbeat and resourceful Mafalda. (mafaldacorregedor@gmail.com) She has several jobs because of the threadbare Lisbon economy – tour guide, school teacher, tango performance.

She picked me up and we drove to Belém and saw the Jerónimos Monastery, where Vasco da Gama is buried.

Took a gander at the monument to explorers, which oddly enough reminded me of the Stone Mountain Confederate Memorial Carving. A monument that honors men who died in the service of a cause I don’t believe in. It’s not exploring I object to so much as subjugation and extinction.

There’s a map of the worlds that they conquered by sea, back in the day.

Moving right along, we ducked into the famous Pastéis de Belém with the delectable Pastéis de Nata, an addictive egg custard tart. Outside Belém tower a young black violinist played a medley of the theme from Star Wars, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and Shake it Off. It was weirdly great.

Back we went to Lisbon and drove around in the steep hills, the twisty winding narrow streets. I saw the famous elevator and tram, and stopped at three overlooks.

Had lunch at the place she takes her father. A family joint, with an old school menu. We had cod mixed with potato and battered and fried, (but not greasy, a Lisboa miracle) a heap of lettuce, onion, tomato, and olive salad, and red beans and rice in a casserole. She instructed me on the way to order cod (only salted!). I had a shot of espresso that made my eyes pop open.

We walked up to the Moorish Castle of São Jorge, to the top of the castle ramparts, on the tip top of the city. We dodged school kids and seven screaming peacocks and the views helped me make sense of the layout of the city. The guide that led the school kids around dressed for the part.
We walked down back through the town and into various churches and the cathedral, and in and out of neighborhoods, and short cuts through building with escalators, and back onto the streets, for miles and miles.

Mafalda told me about the natural calamities of earthquake, Tsunami and fire; what withstood them and what was swept away. We talked about the man-made disasters of war and dictators, the current economic woes and the resilience of the people. She approved of the assassination of the former king – she has no use for royalty. If she were French she would’ve stormed the Bastille. As the citizen of a country that was founded on the rejection of the concept of divine right of kings, I could only agree.

I popped my head into a few shops and bought a tea towel embroidered with misspelled love letters. Mafalda translated the Portuguese for me. At some point I had a coconut gelato at Santini’s – I can remember the name because of the movie and you know, yum, gelato. There was a curtain made of buttons I liked. This is the only photo I have of her. The smile is right, but her eyes are closed. Drat.

Graffiti covered the city like a crocheted paint blanket of loops and slashes. Sometimes it was just an ubiquitous signature of urban life. Sometimes it pissed me off.We walked and walked and walked some more through the center of town. She advised on where to eat and not eat, and where I might like to shop, wisely steering me away from the fashionista district and to the street for trims and buttons and yarn. Clearly, she was on to me. We stopped for pastry and bread for me to take back to the B&B, then back to her car. I am leaving out a lot. We talked the entire time. She dropped me off at 6pm.

Best money I spent the entire trip. I have never had so much fun and felt so at ease. I tipped generously.

Tomorrow I am dining at a fou fou joint the B&B guys suggested. I just hope they are as welcoming as they are inventive.