Velásquez

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 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 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.