Prado

Madrid Unfiltered, April 1 & 2: Playing Catch-up

April 5, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Blown slightly off course by the start of my trip, I’m posting the first two days as one post.

Day One

Beloved spouse drove me to Hartsfield and took this awesome photo.

I wish I always looked this good.

Day Two
Watched the sun come up over Spain through my aircraft cabin window. Iberian topography looked flat and treeless, entirely different from home. The few hills looked like weathered, half-buried bones. The phrase ‘the rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain’ sprang to my mind. I watched the shadow of my giant plane race over the fields and houses below. When it touched down there was a brief, mild stutter of the landing gear as gravity took an interest, and the rest was smooth as cream.

The nice taxi guy gladly took my Visa, as has everyone else, from my landlady to El Corte Inglés, and the Prado museum. So far, no charge is too big, no charge is too small but most want my ID and I’ve hauled out my passport more today than I did the whole time I was in Paris. I’m going to see if they accept my driver’s license as ID. Much easier to tote around, and easier to replace if it came to that.

My landlady met me at the apartment. She’s the architect who remodeled the building in a very intelligent and comfortable way that respected the history while making it efficient and comfortable.

Unpacked, changed and geared up to find milk and buy the Museum card I expect to use every day. Put on my Madrid music mix and walked down Carerra San Jeronimo to the Prado. That street is my idea of hell – seedy, crowded, tourist-infested, the length and breadth of it lined with beggars and their dogs. One armless man shook a plastic cup in his teeth. There were the ubiquitous street mimes in spray-painted costumes. Musicians I appreciate, and try to keep change in my pocket to drop in the hat, but I’ll walk a different route to the Prado tomorrow.
There are cops in wide legged stances and swat vests carrying worn, well-used rifles and big ass machine guns straight out of Call of Duty. I see them in front of government buildings and banks and museums and all the big plazas. Yowser.
Spent too much time staring at my iphone, turning the cell off and on, messing with Wi-Fi, trying to access Gmail for previously downloaded emails and use Google maps. Walking in circles trying to start off in the right direction.

Started at the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza. It did not sell the museum card, but the three young women at the desk called to find out who did (answer: the state museums – Thyssen is private). Having the website page printed out was invaluable. Good strategy. Yes, everyone is speaking Spanish. English is halting but deliciously flavored with musical vowels and rolling r of Spanish. The famous Castilian lisp is prevalent and charming. French sound like birds twittering, Spanish sounds like a fountain of water. Warm water.

When I bought my museum pass at the Prado, the nice lady handed me an entrance ticket for that day so I figured it was Fate, though by then I was footsore, crazy tired, and starving hungry.
I passed though the security to commune with whatever drew my eye first. This is the beauty of my plan. I don’t have to plot it out and or rush through. I have all the time in the world to make the Prado’s intimate acquaintance.

Immediately fell in love with a special exhibit by Roger van der Wyden. His anguished expressions are incomparable, and the face of James the beloved is as chiseled as romance cover model, but with profound gravitas. I sat and drew the folds of the virgin’s white cloak and elaborate wimple for half an hour. Heaven. No photography means I will have to look long and hard, and draw often.

I stumbled on to a room with old monastery walls and marble statues of popes, kings and queens. The men were all swagger and conquest, the women haughty. I’ll be back to draw. My landlady suggested I visit a room of Greek statues purchased by Velasquez for the King. Nobody knows it was Velazquez, she confides. Ah, the secrets the locals know.

Lunch was crap at the Prado – dry bread and tired ham. I’ll only snag coffee there from now on. That was fine.

A couple of hours later I started limping back, struggling with Google maps and Internet connection again. Saw a line of taxis by a hotel with doormen and grabbed one. Worth every cent of the six euro fare. A woman driver, who, yes, took Visa, and didn’t drive me around the city, but let me off half a walking block away.

I wandered through a couple of El Corte Inglés, – like Target with a food section in the basement. Got milk, jambon, melon, Nutella, an apple tart and éclair. The basics. Couldn’t find sugar, decent cheese, or alas, crème Englaise in a box. I yearned for an independent cheese monger/bakery/green grocer like in the Marais in Paris. I’ll keep my eyes open tomorrow.

Tomorrow I’m also going to try using a paper map.

The part of the city I’m in turns out to be like the French quarter. Seedy, noisy, crowded. Tourists looking to get a little wild. I’m gonna need bigger earplugs. I think it will be fine, as tired as I’ll be. Or I can get up and join the throngs and learn to eat dinner at 11, like the locals.

In bed it’s not quiet by any means, but not unpleasant. There’s a horn playing a jazzy version of the theme from the Godfather. It’s like staying on Bourbon Street in NOLA. The horn just segued into When The Saints Go Marching In. I rest my case.

I can hear the rattle of dishes and glasses, the murmur of voices, and the clink of cutlery in use. It feels like falling asleep in your bed upstairs while your parents host a big party. The apartment is across from a restaurant/bar. They open at 6am, so they may know my name in a few days.

Dinner was delicious; jambon, half a chocolate éclair, bread with olive oil, a piece of an almond croissant.

Later that night…
Passed out before 9pm. Woke three or four times, trying to figure out if the chatter and clatter was still going on or in my head. It was still rolling. Woke up wide awake at 1:30am and thought a soothing cup of herbal tea would not go amiss. Heading back to bed with decaf chai, heard a marching band. Wait, what? I opened the wooden shutters, and the glass window to my balcony. Yep, some kind of brass and drum marching band in full cry in the plaza a block or two away.
They finished at 1:45am, and people swarmed back down the street, I suppose to finally go home, but maybe not. Listened to dumpsters rolling out over the cobbles to the curb, and a random truck at 2am. Heard a garbage truck at 3:30am. Just heard someone hammering/tapping on the wall upstairs. 3:38. Oy.

Okay, the band; maybe it’s for Easter,’ cause it’s sure not a weekend. No sleeping through those drums, I could feel them through the floor.

I will have to change my liking, as Rick Steve says. Madrileños and tourists in the center are loud and rowdy until the wee hours. I realized, standing on my balcony under a fat round moon on a pleasant spring night, watching people of all ages and genders stroll down the street, I could have walked up to see what was happening without fear or worry. The streets feel safe. That’s a good thing. Secondly, I may become diurnal, sleeping in the early part of the evening, going out at ten and sleeping again. No idea when I’ll wake up tomorrow, and no worries.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 3

April 5, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

April 3
A shower and a cup of tea sharpened my jet-lagged brain. Never underestimate the resurrecting powers of scalding hot water and fire hose quality water pressure.
Dressed in my gray jeans and pink Chucks, I set out with a paper map and marker. I turned right instead of left outside my door and took the street Calle de las Huertas.
Completely different experience! Clean, calm, relatively few people, the street-turned-pedestrian path was actually paved with poetry – phrases in brass letters pressed into the paving. How cool is that?

Onward to the Prado, but en route my first unexpected thrill was a woman busker who busted out an aria from Carmen in a voice like liquid smoke and caramel. I was astonished. Yes, I dropped a Euro. Onward, giddy to realize it was all downhill to the Prado – literally. It was also noon. A bit further along I found the gates to paradise aka Le Café Belle Bonbon, a pastry and coffee joint.

The café con leche was delicious and hard-core caffeine. I hadn’t had breakfast and wasn’t hungry though by now it was 12:30. Definitely planned to come back this way and pick up something on the way home.

I decided to walk past the Prado to the famous Retiro Park. The police I saw yesterday were out in force again – I took a photo of a female officer standing at parade rest next to a police van parked in front of the Prado.

My dirt path through Retiro Park was more forgiving than asphalt, with the bonus of having multitudes of vain Spanish men jogging by with serious expressions and shorts. The rest of my walk was down quiet streets with grand buildings in lovely neighborhoods and virtually uninhabited. Window shopping is almost as fun as Paris. Behold, even the shoes in Madrid have got game.

Walked back a slightly different route, recalling how taking side streets on foot are always more pleasant than main roads. Realized I was thirsty and getting hungry and that it was 3pm. On no account did I want to eat in the Prado again, so I started reading menus. One place seemed promising; the outside venue was full of contented diners, and the menu had no English words, so I rolled the dice. Somewhat intimidated by the sleek steel and white leather décor. Puzzled over the menu (couldn’t get iTrans to function) until the waiter put an English version in my hands. He was laconic but helpful. I ordered two appetizers, hoping to double my chances of getting something edible. I drank three glasses of water and fiddled with my iPhone, like everyone else was doing.
The first dish arrived and looked like a bowl of white foam, and the bowl was smoking hot.

Oookaaay. Took a bite and it was freaking delicious. Ravioli filled with partridge, and I tasted olives and potatoes too. So, so good. I felt like I won the lottery. The next dish was cold, a single large scallop on some kind of chilled greens. Again, various distinct yet harmonious flavors, each mouthful a party. Well, where do I sign up. I marked it on my map and headed out towards the Prado. I was walking by the

I was walking by the Museum of Archeology when sphinxes on the steps called to me and I turned right through the iron gates.

It was a free entry day as it turned out. I spent several hours browsing through objects from the dawn of Iberian time. The older I get, the more I marvel at the brevity of our recorded existence. Most of the exhibits had Spanish and English commentary. I loved a bronze sarcophagus cover of a married couple, holding hands.

Also fell in love with the mosaics, carved wood screens, and the ceilings.

Time passed without me quite realizing it and I hit the wall around 6pm. Wanted to get a taxi, but more that I wanted to buy some apples and pastry, so I walked and walked.

After the Passeo del Prado, cops and crowds converged for one of the many Easter processions. Very festive and grim at the same time. New Orleans Mardi Gras parade meets the Inquisition. Hard to describe. That’s definitely what I heard last night, so I have a small hope that it won’t be like this my entire stay. I stopped in paradise and got a Panini on olive bread and two pastries – hey, according to Fitbit I’d walked over 10 miles on one scallop and one ravioli. Weirdly, I haven’t been particularly hungry today. I figure it’s the coffee – it’s so strong it might as well be speed.
I was one street away when I heard the drums and trumpet and saw the back of Christ’s head hoisted over the crowd, moving at a stately pace. The people carrying the shrine through the streets wore red satin hoods that covered their entire heads, white robes, and ropes that looked like nooses around their necks. So strange. I ran to catch up and took a few photos. I’ll never see the like again.

That done, I limped back to my noisy apartment and ate half my Panini, and something that turned out to be a butter cookie dusted with powdered sugar and filled with gooey caramel. Score!
In bed messing around with airdrop and drop box, trying to get all the photos onto the MacAir. It’s not a cinch, but at least I have most of them somewhere.
It’s 11:30 pm. the streets are packed out, and the processions keep making the rounds. I am going to go look for my earplugs. But what a great day! Don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I bet I’ll enjoy it.

Madrid Unfiltered, Sunday April 5

April 7, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Easter Sunday
Apparently I like to make plans so I can change them. In a contrarian move, the rowdy people of Madrid all went to bed early on Saturday night. It was positively calm by 11.
I, on the other hand, didn’t get to sleep until 1am. Let’s blame that on jet lag. Woke up at 7am when the raucous folks who went to early mass strolled home talking and laughing.

Went back to sleep because I could. Up by 9, had a cup of tea and reviewed the original plan – to go to the big ass flea market with the hoards and look at tat. It was the last thing I wanted to do, so I decided to wing it. I’d walk over to the Bon Bon for café con leche and a pastry, then amble over to the Prado even though my policy is to stay far away from the big museums on the weekend when the crowds come. I can be a contrarian myself.

I was armed with a short list of words in Spanish. I am tired of fumbling with the phone app and have zero memory of any words I repeated on Duolingo.

I strode confidently out the door, secure that I knew the way. I paused at one intersection but told myself not to be a wussy. Didn’t realize I was going the wrong way until I saw the roof of the palace – which is the exact opposite direction. I turned around and a few streets later realized I was passing by the Dominical Basilica Pontificia de S. Miguel.

My plan changed again.

I slipped inside to say a prayer and maybe light a candle or two. Discovered Mass was underway, so I lingered in the back. I found I knew where they were in the mass by the rhythm of call and response, standing and kneeling, even though it was in Spanish.

Just as the Priest raised the wafer to consecrate the host… BOOM! Boom, Boom. Booomm. Rattatat. BOOOMMM. Forget fireworks – It sounded liked the detonation of artillery, so loud the priest’s amplified voice was drowned out. He sighed and rolled his eyes – or maybe looked to heaven for help. It didn’t stop the drummers in the street outside the church.

A convoy of white-caped celebrants with massive bicep strength gathered a crowd and banging away with all their might led the way to a packed out Plaza Mayor for the ceremonial drumming in of Easter. Yeah, when I think of death and resurrection rites I imagine a mood of solemnity and sorrow, but that’s not how they roll in tourist central Madrid.

I peeled away from the growing crowd, having heard enough drumming in the last four days to last me a decade. Back on my mission to get coffee from le Bon Bon when I looked in a doorway and saw a brightly lit bakery with an espresso machine and my feet walked me in.

I mastered my first Spanish phrase ‘para e avar?’ (can I get this to go?) ‘Si’ the clerk said. Success! Two shots of espresso with hot milk later my lips were numb and my brain lit up like a pinball machine What do they put in the stuff? It’s dangerously effective. I also got a pastry I’d seen in all the bakeries and dismissed until I read it was specific to Easter. It looks like cold French toast, but turned out to be much more custardy on the inside with a crusty sweet cinnamon glaze outside. Delicious.

Along the way, I spotted a yarn store and an art supply store – another benefit to getting lost. – and noted down the location for another day.

I ate my pastry sitting on a bench on that street I love, the one with the poetry. Which, by the way, Google maps fails to ‘see’ as a walking route to the Prado. Maybe that’s why there are so few people on it.

I walked to the back of the Prado to the ticket line for those with passes. I was the only person. The other line was out the door and wound around the side and along the long block in front of the museum. The line I am not in winds around the front of the building.

With this second visit, plus the Cerralbo and the Archeological museum visit I’m already ahead on the purchase price of the pass. I admit to a feeling of smugness.

I ask a passing tourist to take a photo of me hanging out with Goya and La Maja Desnuda.

Once inside, I decided to continue my Louvre Strategy; start on the top floor, at the back, and work my way forward. As I go along, I mark the rooms with colored marked on the floor plan they hand out, so I know where I’ve been. I add notes on paintings I want to revisit. Their ‘no photo’ policy makes that essential.

Honesty compels me to admit I forgot that rule twice and was busted both times.

I drew a postcard and sketched a sleeping woman and her dog.

My vision is tricky under the low light in some of the rooms. That’s frustrating. Mostly it was grand, taking my time, listening to the audio guide, which is quite informative.

I made it through rooms 14-39 – not quite half of the second floor. Spent quality time with Goya, Rubens, Murillo, Gainsborough, Reynolds, Tiepolo, and Titian, to name a few. A standout were royal portraits by Meng, who is entirely new to me. The way he made the gems glitter and the flesh soft and dewy. The faces of this upper class rogues gallery had expressions of cheerfully complacent superiority and they are dressed to shock and awe. Goya’s titled people are so different – much more ambivalent.

Left the museum at 5:30 pm pretty whipped, but not as tired as I have been. Walked to Corte Ingles and armed with my Spanish word list was more successful. I left with fresh cherries and pears, Prince of Wales tea, sea salt, a baguette, and butter – dinner!

Walking by a doorway I looked and half a dozen bulls looked back. Realized it must be one of the famous Madrid Bull Bars. I was fascinated. Tables of men inside made it feel like a boys club. I sidled in, and took a couple of photos as discretely as I dared. Ole!

Began to catch up on the blog while I ate my customary dinner of Brie, bread, jambon and fruit. Tomorrow it’s back to the Prado since nothing else is open on Mondays, and whatever other adventures befall me along the way.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 6

April 8, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Monday, April 6

My first day in Madrid that isn’t a national holiday. Up at 7am for the first time, and hoping to get back on a schedule that includes sleeping 8 hours a night. Showered and prepped my backpack for the day; a small half bottle of water, a sketch book and old cassette tape box of pencils and erasers, mini IPad, (the Prado has WiFi), postcards to draw on, a much folded and ceased map with routes marked in highlighter, lip balm, and a compact nylon shopping bag. My iPhone slips in my right pocket, tin with cash, ID & credit card in my left pocket, with the keys to the apartment. I’m good to go.

I ignored my pride and followed my iPhone’s Google maps to the poetry street, Calle de las Huertas . So easy and straightforward. I blush to confess I won’t be leaving the apartment door without running that map app. I have whatever the opposite of a sense of direction is. A sense of dislocation? It’s like the magnet for true north in my head spins randomly. It’s a roulette wheel, not a compass.

I was at the Prado close to 10:30. Took a stealthy photo of the police. No one misbehaves in these ticket lines.

Zipped through security with my museum pass and raced up the stairs to start where I left off yesterday. In the grand hallway, my eye was caught by a dog in one of Tintoretto’s grand paintings. A lovingly rendered hound, something like an English setter. I notice that the same dog is in a nearby painting by the same artist– same markings exactly. I’d bet cash money it’s the painter’s dog. I got out my pencil and a postcard and personal bliss commenced.

Also drew a trussed lamb, Agnus Dei, by the Spanish painter Francisco de Zurbarán.

No audio guide today, just my iPod – Bizet’s Carmen at first, then switched to an audio book while I drew the lamb. And that’s how time flies when I enter a museum.

Two experiences I didn’t predict. First, the wonderful pleasure of discovering magnificent painters I have never seen or heard of. Second, the twinge of embarrassment when an acknowledged master painter leaves me cold. I’m talking about you, El Greco. I won’t lie. Same goes, Picasso. Though I won’t be admitting it out loud in Spain. It would be like dissing Real Madrid. Probably a deportation offense.

Left at 1:30 to stroll around the park and visit St. Georges Church. Tried a place friends had recommended for lunch, Fonty http://fontymadrid.com/home. As a former wordsmith, the name amused me. The asparagus soup was intensely green and asparagussy. It tasted like spring. The steak on a bed of arugula had a decent flavor but was too tough and labor-intensive to chew. It was more like gnawing.

Luckily, the over-all experience was redeemed by the desert, a luscious, fresh raspberry pannacotta.

I’d been unsuccessfully seeking postcard stamps at Tabacs, the only shops permitted to sell them. For a city with smokers on every street corner, tobacconists are few and far between. A nice woman directed me to the Palace Cibeles for stamps. Double score! It was on my list to see, and is a post office. Guards at the first entrance I approached turned me away when I asked in my feeble Spanglish where I could buy stamps. On impulse, I turned back and I showed them the Google translation on my phone ‘do you know where I can find a post office?’ and apparently the penny dropped. Oh, they told me, that’s around the corner and up the stairs. That makes four times so far the Google translate app has changed a no to yes for me. I’m no shill, it’s just the fact.White marble for miles and beautiful ornate brass mail slots. Went in and was promptly scolded, shooed away from the counter and instructed to take a ticket. I took the ticket, they immediately called my number, and impatiently waved me back over. Ah, the international brotherhood of bureaucracy. I used the Google voice translate feature again, and it worked fine for I would like to buy ten postcard stamps, please.

Thought of doing some light shopping, but I was tired and had walked10 miles on concrete and marble, it’s uphill all the way back to the apartment, plus there was a Madrid taxis right outside the PO. I jumped in the cab. and ten minutes and 6 Euros later popped out at my apartment door. Made my standard dinner – fruit, cheese, ham, and bread.

Hope I sleep through the night.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 8

April 9, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Wednesday, April 8

Walked to the Prado down poetry street, stopping for my café con latte and mini croissant at Le Bon Bon. I am now a regular – they get out the to-go cup and had my favorite croissant in the bag. Paused to gaze adoringly at the statue of Velasquéz at the entrance.

Nabbed my no-line entry ticket and checked my raincoat – cool enough to need an extra layer this morning, but the Prado is always toasty inside. Instead of finishing upstairs, I went straight to The Garden of Earthly Delights.

It’s twice as large in person as I imagined it was, just like Durër’s self-portrait is half as big.

The impact of scale is one of the reasons I don’t content myself with looking at art online, however closely gigapixels can get me.

I was a little stunned by Bosch, I’ll admit it. The impact of the pretty pinks and blues and greens in the center panel depicting utter weirdness – vicious imaginary creatures, surreal buildings, and humans tortured by monsters – is like listening to Hannibal Lector whistle Mary Had A Little Lamb. Jarring.

My eye skips around, and only slowly begins to really see what’s going on. There are nightmare hybrid creatures devouring humans that are trapped in a variety of inventive and horrifying way. In the third panel, Hell, it gets deeply gruesome, repugnant, repellent and fascinating.

If you are wondering what a ‘fate worse than death’ could be, you need look no further.

Couple of things; the room has other works by Bosch, but The Garden of Earthly Delight is the 800 pound Gorilla that siphons off the majority of the tourists, leaving his other disturbing works available to view in peace. The Haywain is my favorite.

After a while, a sense of horror sets in. What kind of sick, twisted, malevolent bastard invents this stuff?

Here’s my theory. Bosch was a third generation painter, he had skills, his work sold well, and like Petruchio, he wived it wealthily. He had strong faith but was not merely credulous (he was comfortable criticizing the clergy’s excesses – see the pig in a nun’s habit in hell). He was an esteemed member of The Illustrious Brotherhood of Our Blessed Lady. When Bosch died at the ripe age of 66 the society paid good coin for his funeral mass which included music and bell ringing and special prayers. He never had to declare bankruptcy, there is no record of lawsuits or criminal behavior.

I’m thinking he was like Stephen King, a popular guy who exorcized demons by for a living and went home at night happy man, easy going, kind to children, loved by his dog. Luckily for me, since they don’t have many facts about his personal life, I can think whatever I want.

If, like me, you’d like to learn more about the social context of the painter Hieronymus Bosch and the Delights of Hell. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bRBpg6eYac

It took quite a few rooms of excellent Flemish and Italian paintings to shake the spell of Bosch – it burned itself into more than my retinas.

Left at 2pm for a bite at the bakery I’ve seen more than one of around town and has been consistently tasty – little bites of cheese and ham, peach glazed cookies, hot chocolate. Proteins seem to escape me. Afterward, I walked over to the Fernan Gómez gallery to view A Su imagen; arte, cultura y religion. It’s an underground venue, literally, and across the street from the national library. Though I cannot read Spanish any better than I speak it, I took a photo of the library because you know, books.

I didn’t have high expectations of this exhibition, but I was happily surprised. All religious in theme, and much more accessible than work at the Prado. No crowds which made the work easier to spend time with, but also almost no security, which made ma a little uneasy for these works by Murillo, Goya, José de Ribera, Rubens and other masters.

There was one small work of Saint Joseph walking with his stepson that reminded me of my beloved spouse, who has been such a wonderful father; patient, loving, and devoted.

Started the long walk uphill to the apartment. Feel asleep at 8 with the computer open on my lap, watching the movie on Bosch. Got into bed at 8:30, and slept through until 7am. I think I might have turned the time zone around. I feel truly rested for the first time in a week.

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 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, 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.

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.