Face-Planting, and Reflections on Art.   Madrid 18 Years Later.

I can still hear the SPLAT.  Hands clapping against smoothed cement, stunned, I lift my gaze to see I’ve landed on the slick, brick-red pavement and before me are the scattered contents I’d been holding:  my strewn backpack, phone, tea thermos, and the sunglasses flown from my head.  In full-blown panic, without another second to waste, I rose like a phoenix, scooped up my things, and ran like the wind.  To back up the train–pun intended­–seconds before I had sprinted down the escalator spotting my 9:40 departing train in the distance, it was probably 9:41 and the one- hour train ride to my destination of Vallavolid was not one I could afford to miss.  The young, male ticket agent spotted me galloping down the escalators, yelling out an encouraging, “Corre, corre!”  And corre I did, panting for air.  “Tickete, tickete,” he whined, beckoning me stop.  He scanned my phone with team-like efficiency, “Corre como nunca!”  I heeded his command and summoning my forces to take off for my next sprint, found myself flat out, after my tired legs had given out after maybe two steps.

The athlete ego in me doesn’t like to admit the truth of almost defeat from this story.  I exercise regularly, I’m a former ballroom pro used to dancing all day in heels; a couple of sprints are nothing.  But the fact was, that for the past four days I had walked the shit out of Madrid during the day and by night danced limitless hours of Argentine tango.  My legs…were…sore.  

I’m happy to report, I did make that train, and thankfully I did, because I ended up with my friend at his winery, did a private tour and tasting, ate some ridiculously delicious local specialties, happened upon the town’s annual running with the bulls’ festivities, went to a wine museum in a 300- year-old castle, and ended the day visiting the once-residence of legendary Spanish writer, Miguel Cervantes.  Whew!  The bruised hip would be worth it.

Madrid itself lit up to me and bustled with tourists and locals alike.  It was hard to believe that 18 years had passed since I’d first visited this city with my Spanish study abroad program.  This time though, I could experience it in a different way.  Walking around 5 ½ miles a day, I had my way with the museums, delighted in Spanish food specialties, admired the architecture around the Centro, and shopped!

The museums were especially inspiring this go around, and my senses are much more attuned to experiencing artwork.  Being solo in a museum, and not led in a group, means you can really get lost in your own track of lingering in front of a painting, or being drawn over to another, all at your own whim, without having to worry about keeping to agenda.  The Museo del Prado is a massive, fine collection of classic, far-western European artists.   At large, the paintings appear highly realistic across a breadth of portraits, landscapes, and countless religious paintings, from 12^th century on through early 20th.  So many of these paintings were commissioned for royalty and cathedrals alike.  From mood, tones, brush strokes, and life-like depictions, the artistry coming from these painters was truly striking to behold. 

The Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia is a different beast.  The building itself is a noteworthy structure of architecture, and houses works of a more modern period from late 19^th century to present day.  These are the Picasso’s, Miro’s and the Dali’s, oozing Surrealism, Cubism, and anything Avant Garde.  A Dali painting is captivating for any eye.  You can stare lengthily at his paintings and your eyes discover new intricacies continually popping out at you.  A figure used in one painting makes an appearance in another…a disguised guitar floating within one Dali realm, again recycled into a different.  An eye, which upon further observation is actually a rowboat, and on and on like this.  There was and is no one like him; if there is, please introduce me.

I couldn’t help feel moved having experienced such former Classicism juxtaposed alongside such modernity, and its stark changes of artist themes.  Before me were the breath and soul of a generation of artists experimenting, breaking rules and new ground, creating art like never before, and for its own sake.  As someone who studied photography in the days when we were still developing in dark rooms, I was especially drawn to the displayed works of Man Ray and his contemporaries.  He was truly Avant Gard creating surrealist works through photography and dark room contrivances.  I loved how architecture angles posed as abstract paintings, his use of the female figure, and also how double exposures painted unique final effects.  There was room for error, experimentation and desirous surprises!  These effects, in addition to the silver color quality from film, and its lovely graininess, are facets lost in the precision of today’s digital world that simply cannot be repeated.  

I could feel the impulse of unconventional artistry projected from that 1920’s Parisian era beating at me from all directions; as an artist, it was truly inspiring.  But following my swim in this uplifting current, the waves soon dropped, leaving me wading in sadness.  It was a heavy realization knowing that art like this would never again exist in this way and perhaps would soon lose its appreciation altogether.  The way our world is moving within a growing digital world, and how AI apps are taking over everything from daily mind tasks to artistry, stealing the show of human capacity, I mourned the loss of such gallant forces once housed in that Surrealist era in history, which had seeded its tentacles out to the world.  What will come of our new transition?  Painted before my eyes on one side was the vision of all that was, and on the other side, the unknown potential of all that will be.  And yet who knows?  All things are possible.  And with the spread of psychedelic plant medicine into the mainstream there could be a new surgency of artwork presently unimaginable.  

I meandered outside the Reina Sofia and plopped on a ledge overlooking the plaza.  My mind drifted, taken away to a daydream fantasy implanting me right into that Surrealist Movement era in 20’s, 30’s Paris.  If I could be alive during another era in our more recent centuries it would surely be then.  There I was, an artist, basking at Café de Flore, buxom in my emerald-green, feminine pant suit, poising a long cigarette in my dainty fingers.  I crossed my slender legs and tilted my head, so that my matching, wide-brimmed, musketeer hat blocked the golden sun rays beaming down at our small, round table.  I am deep in conversation about the latest literary revelry, inhale a long drag then spew out something about the importance of imagination, and then move to matters about our place in the world– considering its current atmosphere.  I picked up my champagne glass, threw back a long gulp, and while keeping the empty glass raised to my peers, spouted the last stanza to my latest poem.  I quickly followed with something sharp and witty then let out a hearty laugh while free-flowing between French, Spanish, and English.  Seeing that my cigarette was exhausted, I looked at my thin gold and pearled wristwatch, then with a soft gesture stood up, excusing myself.  “I have to get going,” I’d say, “I’m posing at Man Ray’s studio in twenty minutes and don’t want to be late,” I’d lean down, doing the parting double kisses on each of my companions’ cheeks.   Just before turning to go, I spot Salvador Dali walking up alongside us in his navy-blue, pinstripe suit.  At the last second before losing his gaze, he winked my way, the corner of his mouth curled up with his quintessential smirk…  Such was his wink, so penetrating, that it moved through me, fading into the stone, café walls behind.  A wink so telling of time engendered…and too, telling of stories still untold. 

I can’t end a post about Madrid without touching on Flamenco.  Yes, Flamenco is most originally from Spain’s south, Andalusia, but there’s plenty of it floating around Madrid for the tourist’s sake.  Let me tell you, it is a show that should not be missed!  I must say I got lucky on the place I went.  I had stumbled upon the alleyway street one afternoon, saw the sign in the window, and bought a ticket for that very night.  They took us down into the crypt, you could say, a cave-like, narrow, open room with old brick walls and arched ceiling.  There was one tiny stage.  Out came one guitarist, one drummer on cajon, one singer, and three dancers.  The singer cried out his melody.  And when I say cried out, I do mean cried out.  In my mind I have labeled Flamenco music along the same vibe as Blues music.  Spanish Blues, belted with gipsy flair.  It’s meant to move you, make you feel something, at least Classic, proper Flamenco will.  Well, it did its job.  The female dancer stood up from her tiny wooden stool then graced the stage.  She waited.  Gathering her skirt, and her forces, she tapped in to something.  The force overtook her and she moved along with the melody and song, contriving her body and stomping loudly onto the wooden stage with melodic and staccato taps and clicks.  Her face contorted as the emotion flowed through her.  An intense look I will never forget, one who’s story moved me to tears.  Threads in the imminent existence of our eternal something.  Perhaps she was tapping in to the soul of flamenco, and as she carried it, projected it to us, an entire willing audience watching the moving paintings memorialized, and now seeded within our beings.