CHASING PAINT

Bela Lisboa, Sunday afternoon, Monday morning

April 21, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

The guesthouse staff welcomed me with tea, pastry, personal charm and endless patience. My bed was comfortable. Went for an orienting walk – assigned myself the task of finding milk, bread, and chocolate. That’s generally a good place to start in a new town. There were other people on the streets, but it felt (blessedly) empty compared to the surge and swarm of humanity in the center of Madrid. I am fond of the tiny, bent crones I see here, carefully dressed in their multiple layers of Sunday best, who seem to have stepped out of my grandmother’s era.

The streets and sidewalks were paved in small square-ish cobbles that undulated in patterns – more like mosaic than the mathematical precise stone or solid lumps of cobbles.

Slept in a profound and restful silence. The auditory equivalent of being wrapped in white velvet and gently rocked. So quiet I can hear that seashell hum in my ears. You don’t realize how braced you are against the battery of crowds and cacophony of shouting and whooping threat of police sirens, or how anxious and tired your body becomes until it stops. Lisbon will have its own demands – every step is either uphill or down, like San Francisco – but I say bring it on.

I had to open my (double pane) window to hear the birds – the birds! – singing in the boughs of the trees in the park I could see from my window. Trees thickly canopied with spring leaves, trunks so huge a single one blocks the width of the sidewalk and spills into the street. It would take three of me to put my arms around that trunk.

There’s an aqueduct that runs along side the park- stone arches and pillars dwarf the rectangle of greenery and worn wooden benches. A small coffee kiosk and playground squealing with children – a happy sound. The children reminded me that the name of this place Largo do Rato. I expected a piper in motley at any moment.

The breakfast options were varied and fresh, and tables await in either a den, the sun room, or in the enclosed garden. Star jasmine was blooming, mixed in with the ivy on the wall.

I was willing and able to take on the city.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 18 & 19

April 21, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Saturday, Sunday April 18 & 19

Part of the day before I travel is spent preparing to leave so the day of departure isn’t fraught. I did laundry and packed my suitcase except for two changes of clothes I’d need. The trickiest bit turned out to be trying to print a boarding pass. Apparently, Iberia likes Windows but they don’t like Macs. There were worried messages exchanged on WhatsApp with my landlady, and emails and calls to Iberia, until finally I stood in a photocopy shop emailing my boarding pass to them to print on an ancient copier and even that was a tightrope walk. Go figure.

Having survived that, I figured it would a good day to see the churches. I walked to San Francisco El Grande Basilica, Plaza de San Francisco, thinking I’d skip the tour and just look reverently at frescoed dome and chapel by Goya. I listened to the incomparable Joanna Bourne’s The Spymasters Lady http://www.joannabourne.com/ while I walked. Ideal for the adventure of confidently slipping through the streets of a foreign city.

Alas, the Basilica is only open for tours 10:30-12:30, 4-6. No entry for freelance viewing or praying allowed. It was 2pm, so I changed my plans.

I walked over to Santa María la Real de La Almudena Cathedral. They started construction in1883, and it was completed and consecrated in 1993, so there’s are hope for Buckhead yet!

I had hesitated to go, since it is billed as modern and I imagined an unholy cross between a high school cafeteria and an airport lounge. I was wrong. It had far more grace than I predicted and the ‘modern’ decoration, especially the brilliant colors, were pleasing.

There was plenty of what I love about Catholic churches.

They played chanting monks over the sound system, and occasionally a voice admonished everyone to be quiet. It was surprisingly effective.

I’ve been looking at paintings of Venus and Cupid, aka Eros, for weeks. Does innocent cherub at the feet of the Virgin have a mischievous glint in his eye?Before I set out that morning, I learned someone I knew had died. We had exchanged posts online for years. I lit a candle for her in the cathedral and had more than one melancholy thought.

I miss the oddest things. Making lists. My gym routine. Talking to my friends over coffee in the morning.

That night I set my alarm for the first time. Didn’t need because I barely slept. The street noise hit new levels. It was like trying to sleep in the middle of a frat house during pledge week, or in during carnival in Rio, with a few three alarms fires and a riot thrown in. Exhausted and cranky, I left the apartment at 8am, trundled down the street to the taxi rank on the corner, bags in tow, and left for the airport.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 17th

April 19, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday, April 17

An exchange of emails landed me a spot on an English language tour of the Cerralbo and I presented myself promptly at 11:15 on Friday. There is little signage in this museum. Mostly standing plaques at the entry to a room offer a general statement about its use, with a few items identified for particular notice. Very few painters are named in any room or gallery, and several that have identifying plaques, with the exception of an El Greco, turn out to be not genuine. That said, it’s refreshing assess paintings and objet d’art not by provenance or the reputation of the artist, but purely how they strike you in the moment.

Recall the weaponry that the Marquis collected? Here’s is a tidy quartet of daggers.

Compare them to his collection of Bronze age weaponry. Below is a centerpiece made entirely of swords belong to his ancestors. He was the XVII of his line. Here’s the smoking room, adjacent to swords central. These rooms were considered an all-male preserve. I was thinking it would not be a good idea to have a bunch of touchy aristos slamming brandy around all that weaponry.

Columns topped with the busts of gods on the center table, including an Egyptian Anubis.

And here I am, badly lit but happy as can be, in one of the hall galleries.

While at university, the Marquis founded an art and literature society, La Alborada (Dawn). He wrote poems and romantic novels. He collected what he considered beautiful, and filled his home with luxury, opulence, and heaps of ornate objects. The reason Spain has this museum is there was no Marquis the XVIII. He had no heirs. Fun fact – he married the mother of his best friend at school, a widow who was no beauty and thirty years his senior. I find myself wondering what their story was.

Here’s one of a pair of statues at the entrance to the ballroom.

And, finally, a fragment of the fresco on the ballroom ceiling.

Lunch was kind of a fluke. I was walking by the post office, AKA Cibeles Palace, and remembered a blogger mentioning great views and a café or restaurant inside. Just curious, I went through the security scanner and headed inside. Yes, there was a café, but also a restaurant, higher up on the 6th floor.

The hostess said ‘May I invite you to look at the menu?” before they led me to a table. I appreciated their discreet way of warning me what I was getting my wallet into. This is why I make my own breakfast and eat cheese, fruit and ham from the market for dinner. I saw the numbers, did some math, and rolled the dice.

I should’ve bought a lottery ticket too.

A gorgeous view on a perfect day. Gargoyles to the right of me, clouds scudding by to the left, and a fresh breeze to cool the sun. It was pricey but well worth it. The kind of joint that brings on the amuse-bouche of strawberry soup and little bites when all you order is the sea bass entreé. A culinary highlight.

I also had (not one but two!) remarkable bread rolls that were savory, yet had raisins, and the perfect crisp-crust-to-soft-interior ratio. And they were warm.

One small caveat, at these prices, don’t you think they should’ve hired a proof reader?

I know my blog is replete with grammatical transgressions, but hey, it’s free.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 16

April 19, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Thursday, April 16

Did laundry again. It’s a luxury to have a little laundry room and a line to hang my jeans and tee-shirts on to dry, all to myself. En route to Real Academy Belle Arte I saw a window display of trim that reminded me of the sleeves I am so enamored of.

Arrived at Real Academy Belle Arte and turned left at Lucifer falling, shades of Paradise Lost,

past a really nice still life of lemons

and made a beeline to the Knight’s Dream. Sleeping man in armor and a glowing angel are all very well, but I am riveted by the table covered with allegorical objects; coins and jewels, weapons and skulls, and books. I’m fond of narratives in art.

Thought I’d draw the pistol, but instead ended up looking at the skull on the book. Stood in front of it, and made my marks on the toned paper of the sketchbook, all the while listening to Forgery of Venus.

I’ve read this novel but it was even better listening to here. When the protagonist names streets in Paris and Madrid, I see them clearly. Best of all, when he talks about his first time seeing Velásquez, recognition shivered down my spine even though he talks about it from the perspective of an embittered artist and I am whatever the opposite of that is. Grateful, maybe.

From the skull on the book, I went in search of what I am now thinking of as my favorite sleeve , especially the white kid glove the man hold in one gloved hand. More fun drawing , this time with conté sticks.

I’ve done several little drawings, my favorite way to report on a trip via postcard, but for one reason or another, I’ve been disappointed in them. They looked off, clumsy. Today, for some reason, I could just look and draw, instead of examine and judge. And though objectively it’s unlikely that these drawings are any better, I am pleased with them.

I am at the point I reach on every European trip when I am glutted on pastry, cheese, and ham, and desperate for vegetables. Yesterday it occurred to me to look up vegetarian restaurants on Tripadvisor and make a list. There are the four in this part of town. Walked to Artemisia. It was intimate, bustling and smelled great. Every table was taken, but I only waited five minutes for one to open up. I ordered the menu del dia and read Eloisa James’ Four Nights with the Duke while I laid waste to it; a bowl of minestrone, their house lasagna, and a slice of orange-scented chocolate cake. Fabulous. Generous portions. I couldn’t finish the lasagna and took the cake para llevar. 11 euros. Woot!

Stopped by Typography to buy gifts for my family. Back early-ish , 4:30, but I am ready for an early day.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 15

April 18, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Wednesday, April the 15

Before my Bon Bon breakfast, I consolidated the interior floor maps I’ve used at the Prado. Marking them with colored highlighters and writing notes in the margins turns them into treasure maps, with more than one X marking the spot. I scribble names of painters in the margins that I want to Google up later, along with the locations of paintings I want to revisit.

There were a few gaps signifying unseen rooms, though I feel as if I have poked my nose into every corner.Turns out I’d missed an entire room of Titians. The standouts were two versions of Venus reclining on her bed while a man leers over his shoulder at her and plays an organ *wink wink nudge nudge*.

Not a subtle man, Titian. To his credit, his goddess of love ignores the man and his, um, big organ for her dog. There’s also a lovely Venus clasping the waist of Adonis.

Next, I spent some time with one of Rembrandt’s many paeans to his Saskia. Then I devoted my attention to Velásquez, starting with the portraits he did of the dwarfs at court. They weren’t rendered as purely grotesque court entertainers or buffoons but as individualized characters. Far from mocking or cruel, I found them ambiguous and compassionate.

Having looked up several accounts of the life of Infanta Margarite Teresa, the golden child at the center of Las Meninas, I took another, longer look at that incomparable work. More on that at the end of this post.

Around three I meandered over to Álbora for my lunch. http://www.restaurantealbora.com/ It was very nice indeed. The wait staff recalled me from my single prior visit. Between courses we chatted about our respective visits to Edinburgh and the pleasures of viewing art. This meal featured an artichoke and asparagus salad and croquetas of ham and potato. My favorite, a sort of Spanish taco of braised oxtail on a puree of potatoes streaked with gravy and a heap of grilled, caramelized onion. Mm’mm.

And here’s a shot of their restroom doors. Not my usual area of visual interest, but I found this exceptionally direct. No manikin/skirt icon for this hip joint. The men’s room image is reflected in a glass partition.

Thus fortified, I walked back to the Cibeles Palacio for the pleasure of seeing those magnificent brass mail slots for various regions of Spain, to mail my next batch of postcards, and to buy more stamps. This time, I got the ticket from the machine first.

Now, here is what became of the pretty little Infanta.Get out your handkerchiefs.

For the standard political and dynastic reasons (power, wealth) Infanta Margarite Teresa was betrothed as a child to her uncle and cousin, Leopold I, Holy Roman Emperor. One courtly bow away from incest if you ask me, and it didn’t do their gene pool any favors, but he was in Austria, she was in Spain. It was all on paper, so no harm, no foul.

Margarite Teresa’s father, King Felipe IV, who called her ‘his joy’ in his private letters, died in1665 when she was only fourteen.

By Easter of the following year the grieving Infanta was shipped off to Austria and married to the twenty-six-year-old Leopold She continued to call him Uncle, he called her Gretl. But it could still work out, right? By all reports they had shared interests in music and theater.

But instead, she was treated like a puppy mill bitch, a battery chicken. She gave birth to four children and had at least two miscarriages. Only one of her children survived past infancy. Margarite Teresa died in childbirth at the age of 21.

Do the math.

A pregnancy a year for seven years, punctuated by painful and debilitating miscarriage after miscarriage. Three funerals, not counting her own and that last baby. A man wouldn’t breed a valuable horse that young and that often for fear of spoiling a mare’s health.

What a bleak and desperate end. One that could have been averted with a modicum of patience. A little restraint and she might have lived. Unlike, say, death by disease or misadventure, it was entirely preventable. A tragedy.

To end this post on a more upbeat note, here’s a video of a couturier’s collection inspired by the master.

http://www.blouinartinfo.com/news/story/971647/video-french-couturier-stephane-rolland-talk-velazquez#

Madrid Unfiltered April 14

April 17, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Tuesday, April 14

Skipped breakfast and headed straight to the Royal Palace. Kept hearing Cinderella’s song in my head, from the Into the Woods musical, ‘He’s a very nice prince…’ Though since his father, Juan Carlos, abdicated last year, the Prince is now King Felipe VI, and his heir presumptive is his eldest daughter Leonor, Princess of Asturias. Here’s a photo I like of the three generations of Spanish royals. Yeah, she’s got this.

Here’s me in front of the Palacio Real de Madrid. The royal family doesn’t live here. It’s like the company headquarters, the main office where they meet clients and sign paperwork.

It’s pretty much grandeur, everywhere you look. Here’s the view from where I’m standing –

There were swarms of humans buzzing around the palace. The first guard I approached shook his head at my Spain museum card. I walked on to another entrance and the security guard looked at it and waved me through. I still paid admission, happy to, but I wasn’t in line behind the sixty zillion tour groups of Asians and school children. Win!

Asked at the ticket counter about a tour in English, and as luck would have it there was one in twenty minutes for an additional four euros. What a deal. It turned out to be a nice young woman guide and a young couple from Brooklyn. A private tour, basically.

Sadly no photos permitted, except in the front entry, the grand staircase, and a corridor.

Just to give you a sense of the scale.Again, looking upThe guide’s English was so-so, but her enthusiasm and patience were stellar. At one point, after the over-the-top state dining room (formerly three rooms of the Queens and rococo as all get out) she gave us a number of personal recommendations for places to eat. Apparently, Clinton was the last President to officially visit Spain, and he is still highly regarded for this in Spain. Maybe Clinton will be the next President to visit, too. Just putting it out there.

We toured around twenty rooms of the palace and there are thousands more. It was built after a fire on Christmas Even in 1734 destroyed the former Alcázar (they threw Las Meninas out of a window to save it).

There is so much freaking splendor, it feels both aggressive and oppressive – behold the power and might of Reino de España – it’s clearly more suited to be a national heritage museum than any place you’d want to raise a family.

If you are like me, you wonder – who cleans this stuff? I mean, they’d have to have high-level security clearance to start, and arcane cleaning skills to cope with silk wallpaper and walls decorated with 200-year-old porcelain bas-reliefs, not to mention miles of Spanish marble floors, gilded carved wood frames, French crystal chandeliers by the score with a thousand lights a pop (currently halogen). No mop and go. King Charles IV was another clock aficionado, like our friend the Marquis de Cerralbo. Clocks were the latest in technology and science, the iPhone of their age, said the guide. Dozens of these clocks are in the palace, all in working order. Who winds them? For that matter, who dusts the collection of Stradivarius? It’s got to be a highly paid, niche career.

I was in love with the sphinx table, where the former king signed the abdication papers.

The guide explained that the King and Queen never sit on the thrones, they stand on the steps because the monarchy no longer rules the people. Interesting but I’d bet cash money King Felipe sat on that throne at least once when he was a boy.

A family portrait, recently unveiled and decades in the painting, has an interestingly retro /modern feel – the lightness of the background, the brushwork varying from loose to precise, the dated clothes (oh why, Queen Sophia? Why shoulder pads and big florals?) the visible grid. It’s no Las Meninas, but it’s interesting.

The current monarch is impossibly handsome, not often the case for the prior job holders. I wonder if he ever takes his daughter to the office on Bring Your Kid to Work day, or when Mom has to open a fête. Queen Letizia is a beauty, if frighteningly thin. I wish her future highness all the best. Go ladies!

Dropped some ducats in the gift shop. As souvenirs go, they were classy. Afterwards strolled through the garden to a restaurant our guide recommended, Taverna Botin. The smells of the grilled lamb and roast beef wafted out onto the street – alluring. Ordered the menu del dia – soup, stew, wine and apple fritter. I did the reverse of Christ at Cana, replaced wine with water, but otherwise ate what came. I had forgotten what nutrition tasted like. The soup (broth, thin noodles, chickpea) was delicious, and the stew, to my surprise, tasted like really, really good Brunswick stew.

The last thing I expected was a southern Georgia flavor. I could feel my body cheering for protein after two weeks of mostly pastry, jambon, and café con leche. I was so stuffed I couldn’t finish the fritter.I was seated in the foreign tourists’ room – all Austrian, Asian and Americans – but the food was tasty and satisfying so it mattered not. Read Grace Burrowes’ latest, The Duke’s Disaster (also tasty and satisfying) on my iPad, leisurely ate my meal, and afterwards embraced my first siesta.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 13

April 16, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

April 13, Monday

Asleep by 11, wake up at 7:30 = happiness.

Putting clothes out is as good a strategy in Madrid as home. Museums are more like a marathon than a sprint, and every little bit of preparation helps.

Heading to the Museo Lazaro Galdiano, a good hour on foot, and decided to take the Madrid subway. I was a little nervous about it. I’d decided the night before to just walk to Bon Bon, have my coffee and croissant and then get a taxi. Instead, I embraced the strange, walked to the Opera station, and bought a ticket from the machine. Tapped it ineffectually on the turnstile until someone kindly pointed to where I should insert the ticket. Once inside, it was a lot like the Paris metro – easy to figure out.

Everyone was on their iPhones. It has become ubiquitous across countries, class and economic lines.

I wonder what the unintended consequences might be. Could the sheer commonality of this device that crosses boundaries of age, gender, ethnicity, and creed bring us together?
An old friend of mine was recently bemoaning the fact he never used his camera anymore, only his phone ,and it wasn’t the same. True, digital isn’t film, but it’s so much better in so many ways. I don’t want to go back to drawing water out of a well, myself.

Popped out of the subway and got lost as soon as I put my iPhone map away, convinced I knew where I was. I walked an extra six blocks before I checked. Ah, humility, the Queen of the Virtues.

The Museo Lazaro Galdiano is prime, full of splendid things. It’s all right there, inches away – one can truly see the detail. All the best quality, unlike the wheat among the chaff of Belle Arte. On the other hand, no sofas.
But it’s definitely a museum and not a preserved former home like the Cerralbo, so intelligently grouped and beautifully presented.

After viewing hundreds of frail/compliant/fainting/awkward virgins like this –
I adored this sculpture of a woman washing. To quote Iggy Azalea, “this shit get real.” At last an actual woman, not a tortured saint, repentant sinner or an immaculate virgin.

The museum had a lovely elevator with an ironwork half gate, and wood and glass doors that slid apart, like opening a little jewel box. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d write.
The top floor had a room of weaponry more gorgeous than intimidating. Probably because it was behind glass. A wonderful feature of this museum are the multiple drawers beneath the displays. Loved the dagger and sword and epees. Some so beautiful, some malevolent, some obviously so heavy. The skill and strength to use them was astounding to me.

Don’t miss the drawers.

Found myself looking at sleeves again,

and ceilings. The first floor had elaborately frescoed ceilings in the classic style, but mixing gods with themes of family, art and literature, commissioned by the owner. I was charmed.
After I reluctantly left, some four hours later, I dropped in a bank to get 50 Euro bills from the ATM changed by a bank teller. She laughed when I asked if she would do that. In Paris they sniffed at me and refused, so points to Madrid.

Walked to the Prado past the Retiro Park, and this time I went to the section along the entrance, found a bench near other people, and peacefully ate my bread, cheese, ham, and grapes and listened to Vixen in Velvet on my iPod. I wondered why don’t I do this more often at home – go outside, is what I mean. Sit in a park and look at the trees. I made a mental note to walk over to Chastain Park more often.

Into the Prado and straight to worship at the altar of Las Meninas. Like the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, it was besieged, surrounded twenty people deep with Asian tourists and high school groups. All the tour guides use mics now and the tourists wear ear pieces. I dove in, moving towards the front as space opened up.

I looked and looked and looked some more. The expression of Velásquez seemed kinder and more contemplative, less arrogant than it looked in photographs.

The little girl was the perfect floss-haired princess, the adored daughter, clearly as beloved and spoiled as it was possible to be.

My eye moved to the king and queen in the mirror, and for an instant it was me on the dais being painted by Velásquez, that was my golden child watching me stand patiently while Velásquez worked. I was just there, just for a moment. All in my head but it was wonderful all the same.

Sargent hired musicians to amuse his titled patrons during the tedium of posing. I wonder if Velásquez encouraged the Infanta to visit, to bring an expression to the King’s face Velásquez wished to capture, or just to amuse and distract the royal couple.

Afterwards I wandered randomly around. I spent a happy quarter of an hour drawing the head of the bull in The Rape of Europa. A magnificent beast.

On my way back to the apartmentnI found a postbox – hint: they are bright yellow – on the street near the ham museum (yes, there is a Museo de Jambon – they take their pork seriously) so my postcards were finally mailed.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 11 & !2

April 14, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Saturday April 11 and Sunday April 12

Me in the Real Academia de Bellas Artes is like a kid alone in a candy story. There were only a few other visitors, so ample access to every work of art. And this is mundane, but there were couches and benches in almost every room. I gotta say, after weeks standing on cold, hard marble floors it was enough to make me weep with gratitude.

There was, to be sure, a lot of chaff amidst the wheat, the wheat is there, Ruben, Goya, Mengs, Bellini, and Corregio to name a few. And it’s right there – you can get right next to it and not have to defend your position or feel guilty for blocking the view .

Another Francisco de Zurbarán trussed ram, this one with a halo.

This just tickled me. ‘Skeleton, party of four’. Hey Kids, let’s go visit the land of the living. Dia de los Muertos day at Disney World.

Detailed miniature scenes, made of white wax in encased in glass, elaborately framed.

Goya’s last palette is there, framed in a golden laurel wreath. Very nice.

An unintentionally hilarious artist moment. There this painting of a volcano erupting and people fleeing for their lives, except –over on the left-hand side, the artist calmly recording the scene for posterity. Oh, really?

So much more. I started taking photos of the sleeves in the portraits of exalted military men and they are a feast, a gilt and silver embroidery, velvet nap, armor, fur, and lace still life. Just luscious. It makes me crave a pile of brocades and embroidered fabric, lace and oil paint.

My WTF moment. I looked down and saw this: wands and the cast of a hand in a glass case. At first, I thought – Voldemort!

A famous conductor and his batons? Nearby was Segovia’s guitar, so maybe.

Onto adventures in dining. It is possible to have a modern, ie unrecognizable, plate of food that is never the less delicious? Yes. The food at Trapo was A+, the décor a little chilly and the ambiance was lonely. The large, L-shaped room was empty. Just me at my table, and off in the distance a family with a baby. A baby that that ramped up from fussing to shrieking for a good quarter of an hour

But I was there for the food. Great bread in a cloth sack, salad on a piece of paper I slid on the provided tin plate – just like the county jail.

Artichokes under a sort of rice paper caul, but delicious. Didn’t get a photo because I fell on them like the starved for vegetables person I’ve become.

Main course , spring roll with buttered, toasted crumbs. The finale, spice cake with banana ice cream and caramel sauce.It was all tasty, but in the best food in Madrid category, points to Álbora. The lack of other people was disconcerting. Though, hey, I had a private chef.

Sunday, April 12: I was indisposed and stayed in the apartment most of the day, reading and napping. Enforced rest, which I needed anyway, so on balance, not a bad thing.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 10

April 12, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday, April 10

Hiked over to the Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales (Convent of the Barefoot Noblewomen), Plaza de las Descalzas, 3, just six minutes away. Tours are limited to 20 people and only two tours in English daily. I arrived at 10:45, and was issued a ticket for noon. Perfect! I wandered through the streets in search of my daily caffeine fix. I avoid the large plazas – side streets have better service and lower prices. Meandering paid off. Five minutes later I had a table and a café con leche and a croissant. The croissant was fresh and tender. The best I’ve eaten, with the exception of Bob Bon’s which cannot be surpassed.

Fortified, I was waiting by the forbidding, grim entrance doors by 11:45. The guards were turning people away, sold out for the day. A better option is to book online, but only Spanish language tours are offered.

We waited in an anteroom lined with paintings of angels. The mood was quiet and respectful, something I like to see in my fellow tourists. Photographs were forbidden, and I didn’t cheat because, you know, nuns. I pulled these off Google Image. I watched a clueless older man who considered himself an exception get his knuckles rapped.

A dignified man of quiet authority with a particularly beautiful Spanish accent led the tour. If words were music, he spoke in glissandos. The Grand Staircase brought to mind the Benozzo Gozzoli chapel in the Palazzo Medici in central Florence.

https://medicipatronsaints.wordpress.com/works-in-the-exhibition/benozzi-gozzoli-journey-of-the-magi/

Every inch painted with dazzling frescoes covering walls, arches, ceiling, and balustrades. Added in the 17^th century, the colors were still brilliant.

I was struck by a trompe-l’oeil balcony scene beside the staircase with King Felipe IV, Queen Mariana, and their little floss-haired infanta Margarita Teresa, looking much as she does in Velázquez’s Las Meninas. Here’s a brightly lit photo – look on the wall to the left.

Joanna of Austria founded this convent in 1559, and for 100 years the convent attracted young widowed or spinster noblewomen who brought their lavish dowries with them. Clearly, these ladies were more noble than barefoot. Not that I doubt their devotion, but I can’t help wondering if they chose Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales over being bossed around by men at court. The convent was ruled by women, their own world of wealth and privilege, art and music. Spain’s finest Renaissance composer, Tomas Luis de Victoria, worked at the convent for 25 years. How dreary could it have been?

We followed our guide, and were followed by his assistant, a young, doe-eyed, dark-haired woman, who looked like half of the portraits of Virgin we passed. Her task was to move the stragglers along the wide hallways of the upper cloister. Mullioned windows overlooked a sunny, grassy courtyard, planted with orange trees. Fruit hung in the green boughs. To quote another visitor, one fully expected to see a unicorn canter by.The guide explained about the founding of the order, and what made various paintings or sculptures noteworthy. Except for the occasional bench, the rooms of the cloister we saw were empty, but so embellished that they felt replete.

Some pieces I keep thinking about:

The Virgin of Guadalupe shrine enclosed by a pair of riotously rococo gilded and carved doors. The altar was made of stacked mirrored panels, and the 68 panels feature matriarchs of the Old Testament painted by Sebastián Herrera Barnuevo. Girl power!

A pair of golden crowns – open in the center for a king and closed like a helmet for an emperor – resting on purple velvet pillows. I have no clue why there were there.

Tapestries designed by Rubens and made in Brussels in the 17th century. Displayed in the former nuns’ dormitories, they curved up into the high ceiling and swept the floor.

The Flemish room of paintings, including one of a ship sailing for heaven while sinners sank in the seas, pulled down by demons, and a Deësis of the Virgin Mary, Christ Blessing, and Saint John the Baptist. Very like one I just saw in the Prado.

The many, many portraits of Juana.

Little robes for altar figures made by the nuns – like divine doll clothes.

A carved and painted wooden statue of the grieving Magdalene wearing a garment that looks like woven basketry – such intricate carving.

A shrine, set low in the wall, with miniature figures made of silver. It was for the edification of the children of women who came to the convent after marriage.

And, of course, at every turn there were virgins virgins virgins, Mary depicted in all her different aspects. It’s worth mentioning one of Fra Angelico’s Annunciations was taken from the cloister to the Prado. According to our guide, it took a royal edict to override the nuns’ protest. Note the unusual depiction of Adam and Eve leaving Eden fully clothed.

I wondered if the richness and the beauty, the might and power these acquisitions represent distracted the nuns or was a conduit to the divine? Or maybe it faded into background noise after a few decades of prayer and service. I was only there an hour and a half. I could’ve stayed a week.

Afterward, it took me a minute to return to the 21^st century. Decided to go in search of that tee shirt place I’d found and lost. Success! Picked up a portable lunch from a bakery. Walked through Retiro Park towards the Prado. I planned to sit on a bench and eat little sausage-stuffed croissants and squares of tiramisu. Note: there is no cholesterol in Spain. This fact is well known.

The park is large, the trees leafed out in pale spring green, and the paths broad, well laid out, and a pleasure to walk. The problem was there were very few people. Two runners in 20 minutes, no children playing, no families, no one eating lunch. I expected it would be well populated on this beautiful day. I saw a few men sleeping on benches, and three burly men on either side of a path that gave me hard stares. So, no. I kept going, and ate as I walked.

I returned to the Prado. That’s another great thing about the museum pass, it’s reasonable to drop by for a couple of hours. I went to the earliest section, which made me wish I had a Bible to consult. I know the basics, of course. A Presbyterian childhood is all about the bible stories. I can spot a Magdalene or Noah or Christ confounding the doctors from across the room, but I mostly know my expurgated, childhood version of the stories.

I sat for an hour and drew details of demons being slain by the Archangel Michael (and his footwear) on postcards for my family. The Prado: where the wild things are. So satisfying. I am starting to miss the act of painting.

Ducked into a room on the way out that had a vibrant Sorolla painting of boys lying in surf that makes me determined to visit his museum. The next door room held four enormous narrative paintings on a grand scale; a blighted lovers tale, a betrayal and mass execution, a despairing prince in exile, and a knight’s conversion to Christianity when confronted by a rotting corpse. Thought of contemporary realism painters that have no place now. What a loss.

Did a bit of shopping in the Prado gift store. You didn’t expect me to pass by a tee shirt with Velázquez’s signature on it, did you? Walked back via Calle Cervantes and picked up my dinner en route.

Tomorrow, Belle Arte and lunch at the avant-garde restaurant, Al Trapo.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 9

April 11, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Thursday, April 9

Raining, drizzling, and cold. I layer up in a long sleeve tee, black Zella hoodie, Marmot raincoat, jeans, heavy socks, and mittens. I’m good to go. My family has convinced me of the Norwegian adage Der findes intet der hedder dårligt vejr, kun dårligt påklædning. ‘There is no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong gear.’ Thinking of flagging a taxi, but the rain is just mizzling, so I trotted down my favorite street to le Bon Bon. This time, I sat down in the tiny, toasty interior for my café and croissant.

From there it was off to the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum, http://www.museothyssen.org/en/thyssen/home I hoped the nasty weather would discourage crowds, but there were throngs of grammar school children. Luckily, they were short and I could easily see over their heads

I galloped upstairs to view the works of my people, the Flemish and Dutch. Lovely lovely stuff, especially the portraits. To look at the famous portrait of King Henry VIII (by Hans Holbein in 1536) is to wonder how he managed to invest features marred by greed with firmness and resolve. And it’s very small, another surprise of scale.

For my artist friends, here’s a particularly wonderful example of pentimento – the platter’s highlighted edge clearly visible through ghostly fruit.

What you can’t see in this slightly unfocused detail of a portrait, is the way the painter scraped the blue paint back to the weave of the canvas to make the fabric’s texture.

It was a shock, but a pleasant one, to see several rooms of American artists. Here they take on a shine they don’t get at home. To see my compatriots honored in this way gave me a little shiver of pride. I spotted a lovely Innes,

and Hugh Jones’ Summer in of the Blue Ridge gave me a surge of homesickness.

A genre scene of maple sugaring reminded me of my sister Sarah, who was boiling down sap up in Wisconsin last month. William Bradford’s Fishermen off the Coast of Labrador drew visitors like a blue magnet.

Gilbert Stuart’s portrait of George Washington was echoed, and to my mind eclipsed, by the dignity and warmth of his portrait of Washington’s cook. I was going to forage for my lunch back out in the streets, but took a chance on the museum café. Score! Cheeseburger with bacon, medium rare, and thick cut French fries. Yum. As much as I enjoy gorging myself on pastry and ham, I have actually missed nutrition. Followed it up with an espresso, or I would have taken a siesta right there.

Restored, I went back to view another floor and a half. As it turned out, I moved much more briskly through the halls of impressionists and 20^th century.

Left around 4pm and took a taxi to the opticians. Tried on dozens before I settled on a pair of hybrid black and tortoise shell frames, designed in Paris. But of course! The frames I bought in Paris last year were designed in Barcelona.

These frames weren’t cheap but they so delight me that they were well worth the cost. However, the price they quoted for the lenses was shocking – and that was before they said it was for each lens. Now, that’s just appalling. No one buys a single lens. It borders on deceptive practice. I still bought the frames, but I’ll get the prescription filled back home. I may be a tourist and I am certainly vain but I am not an idiot.

Strolled back to the apartment, picking up a brace of apples here, a fresh pan pequeño there. Hoping to have another whole night of sleep. What a difference it makes! Tomorrow, depending upon the weather and my mood, it’s either the Prado or the Palace.