Recuerdos de Madrid
[So, a while ago I said my rant was in progress, and then admitted it was a lie. Well, it really is in progress this time. I left my copy of last week's New Yorker at R—'s house, etc, etc...]
Madrid is, as you may have heard, an incredibly beautiful city. The weather during my entire stay was very warm and very dry—my skin is clearer than it's been in months, and my hair (which is longer than it's been in years, fyi) was easy, breezy, beautiful. Anyway, Madrid is lovely. I think it has a lot to do with the feel of the street life; as you walk around, you see all thee people sitting out on benches or in cafes. Sure, this has a lot to do with the weather, but even when it is nice in London, there aren't very many places to just sit, at least not in central London. The streets are also very wide, in a way that they most definitely are not in London. San Francisco, incidentally does have all those very wide post-1912 boulevards, but again, not the places to actually sit while on them. (Any benches would be taken over my the homeless, etc.) Speaking of which: how's Octavia Blvd coming along, my San Franciscan friends?
In the end I decided that the Spanish-language sources about Garcia weren't really worth my time (and they're held in the British Library anyway), so any vestige that this trip was even partly motivated by work was thrown out the window. Thursday I went to the Prado, which may indeed be the best museum in the world, as it claims to be. The Garden of Earthly Delights was bigger than I imagined it would be, the Goya Black Paintings (including Van Twee's favorite, the "Half-Buried Dog") were more disturbing than I imagined they would be, and Las Meninas in person still packs a punch despite its over-familiarity.
Thursday night my indispensable host (herein known as the Spaniard) had received press tickets the gala concert for the 40th anniversary of the Spanish Radio and Television Symphony Orchestra. For the occasion the official patrons of the orchestra were to be in attendance, Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Asturias. As readers of Paris Match or the like will be aware, the Prince of Asturias (the heir to the thrown—the title is equivalent to Charles being called the Prince of Wales) recently married this woman, now the Princess Letizia (don't forget to lithp the "z"), who was a television news presenter and the daughter of trade union activists, and the granddaughter of a cab driver and a fishmonger. She is awesome. Anyway, the prince and princess arrived amid a hail of paparazzi flashbulbs. It felt very... grand.
The performance of Mahler 2 which followed was pretty much lackluster, despite a really lovely "Urlicht" by Jennifer Larmore. Alas, the Spaniard was not feeling well... something he ate, we guess. You know that moment in Mahler 2 where the entire orchestra falls silent, and you hear the sound of a solo horn from off-stage? Imagine that delicate moment, if you would. Now imagine that moment, accompanied by the sound of my friend running to the exit, stumbling, and vomiting on the stairs before reaching the exit. Oh yes... (And PS, I got handed the task of writing the 500-word review for mundoclasico.com that he was supposed to write... if you look on the right day (maybe Tuesday?) you can read it while it's still free.)
By the next day, he was feeling fine. We went to the Reina Sofía museum, where Guernica is. It's a beautiful museum, in a converted Army headquarters. Guernica, I have to say, was maybe something of a let-down. Much of the collection was not that interesting, but it was good to walk through with the Spaniard, because he could tell me which of the Spanish post-war artists were fascists, which weren't fascists but took fascist money, which claimed to repressed but actually weren't, etc. etc. Friday night we saw the Bernice Reagon/Robert Wilson collaboration based on Flaubert, The Temptation of St. Anthony (I think some of you saw this in Brooklyn, yes?) It was good, but not great—I'm wondering if there were more awe-inspiring stage effects and machinery in the original mounting that couldn't be toured overseas. But the music was mostly great. Bernice Reagon herself got up and sang a little during the curtain call. She rules.
Saturday we wandered around, went to the Royal Palace (which is totally lovely—somehow incredibly lavish, but on a more human scale than Versailles). The Spaniard only got one press ticket to see Pappano conduct the London Symphony Orchestra on tour (Bernstein, Shostakovich, Rachmaninov), so I took a nap before meeting up with him again to spend an evening in the gay neighborhood, Chueca. There, I randomly ran into an acquaintance from San Francisco. Yes, really. Even 5000 miles away, I cannot escape the little village that is my SF social circle. It gets weirder: the guy was in Madrid with a Spanish friend, who—you guessed it—went to college with my Spanish friend. In Santiago de Compostela. Am I more than three degrees removed from any homosexual on the planet?
Later that evening, we went to a straight hipster bar, La Via Lactea, where the Spaniard knew the bartender and could get us free drinks. The very best kind! Can I take this moment to complain about the absolute, complete worst thing about the United Kingdom? The absolute, complete worst thing about the UK is the legally-mandated 25 centiliter shot of liquor. In every bar in the country you are legally required to sell this thimbleful of alcohol as a "single." (I guess some bars give you 35 cl singles—big difference!) The point is: you can imagine my joy and delight and when I saw, in Madrid, the bartender get out the bottle of liquor and just pour it into the glass. For several seconds! Bliss!
As the Spaniards are famous for, the streets were still bustling at 4am, when we took a taxi home.
Sunday's outing was to El Escorial, Philip II's attempt to replicate the phenomenon of Versailles, keeping the nobility in check by drawing them all to a palace away from the capital. In a bizarre move that perhaps sheds light on some deep aspect of the Spanish character, the massive, massive building he built for this purpose is not a lavish pleasure-palace like Versailles, but rather it is the most depressing building I have ever seen in my life. It is absolutely monumental, and absolutely austere. Even the paintings, including some clear masterpieces, were painted in an enforced aesthetic of dark, dark sobriety. For example, the altarpiece of one of the smaller chapels is a Titian, and a really wonderful Titian at that. But it is also the single darkest Titian I have ever seen, portraying St. Lorenzo being burned alive on a grill. Did I mention that the entire castle is laid out like in the shape of gigantic grill, in order to recall the instrument of the patron saint's martyrdom? Cheery!
Oh and then there are the tombs—the only part of the castle that could be described as lavish. All the kings and queens of Spain are in single, very small oratory. It's hard to describe how creepy this is. elsewhere in the palace all the other princes and what-not are entombed all in a line. The royals who died before puberty are all placed in this big round marble thing that looks like a wedding cake. I took a picture of Don Carlos's tomb, which is, in fact, directly across from Elizabeth de Valois! [Non-opera people: ignore this shocking revelation.]
I should also mention that the Spaniard was deeply affected emotionally by all this weirdness. He said more than once, "the most powerful empire of the world memorializes its power by building... this!" In summary: El Escorial is way fucked up.
In light of a previous entry on foreign travel, you may be wondering if how I dealt in a country where I hardly spoke the language at all. The answer is: badly. I hid behind the Spaniard at all times. I tried to be discreet about this, but I probably wasn't. Why am I so afraid? And is this something I should just learn to live with about myself, or something I should actively try to fix?
Update: Trip to NYC officially scheduled. I arrive Monday June 20 and leave Sunday June 26. FYI...
Madrid is, as you may have heard, an incredibly beautiful city. The weather during my entire stay was very warm and very dry—my skin is clearer than it's been in months, and my hair (which is longer than it's been in years, fyi) was easy, breezy, beautiful. Anyway, Madrid is lovely. I think it has a lot to do with the feel of the street life; as you walk around, you see all thee people sitting out on benches or in cafes. Sure, this has a lot to do with the weather, but even when it is nice in London, there aren't very many places to just sit, at least not in central London. The streets are also very wide, in a way that they most definitely are not in London. San Francisco, incidentally does have all those very wide post-1912 boulevards, but again, not the places to actually sit while on them. (Any benches would be taken over my the homeless, etc.) Speaking of which: how's Octavia Blvd coming along, my San Franciscan friends?
In the end I decided that the Spanish-language sources about Garcia weren't really worth my time (and they're held in the British Library anyway), so any vestige that this trip was even partly motivated by work was thrown out the window. Thursday I went to the Prado, which may indeed be the best museum in the world, as it claims to be. The Garden of Earthly Delights was bigger than I imagined it would be, the Goya Black Paintings (including Van Twee's favorite, the "Half-Buried Dog") were more disturbing than I imagined they would be, and Las Meninas in person still packs a punch despite its over-familiarity.
Thursday night my indispensable host (herein known as the Spaniard) had received press tickets the gala concert for the 40th anniversary of the Spanish Radio and Television Symphony Orchestra. For the occasion the official patrons of the orchestra were to be in attendance, Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Asturias. As readers of Paris Match or the like will be aware, the Prince of Asturias (the heir to the thrown—the title is equivalent to Charles being called the Prince of Wales) recently married this woman, now the Princess Letizia (don't forget to lithp the "z"), who was a television news presenter and the daughter of trade union activists, and the granddaughter of a cab driver and a fishmonger. She is awesome. Anyway, the prince and princess arrived amid a hail of paparazzi flashbulbs. It felt very... grand.
The performance of Mahler 2 which followed was pretty much lackluster, despite a really lovely "Urlicht" by Jennifer Larmore. Alas, the Spaniard was not feeling well... something he ate, we guess. You know that moment in Mahler 2 where the entire orchestra falls silent, and you hear the sound of a solo horn from off-stage? Imagine that delicate moment, if you would. Now imagine that moment, accompanied by the sound of my friend running to the exit, stumbling, and vomiting on the stairs before reaching the exit. Oh yes... (And PS, I got handed the task of writing the 500-word review for mundoclasico.com that he was supposed to write... if you look on the right day (maybe Tuesday?) you can read it while it's still free.)
By the next day, he was feeling fine. We went to the Reina Sofía museum, where Guernica is. It's a beautiful museum, in a converted Army headquarters. Guernica, I have to say, was maybe something of a let-down. Much of the collection was not that interesting, but it was good to walk through with the Spaniard, because he could tell me which of the Spanish post-war artists were fascists, which weren't fascists but took fascist money, which claimed to repressed but actually weren't, etc. etc. Friday night we saw the Bernice Reagon/Robert Wilson collaboration based on Flaubert, The Temptation of St. Anthony (I think some of you saw this in Brooklyn, yes?) It was good, but not great—I'm wondering if there were more awe-inspiring stage effects and machinery in the original mounting that couldn't be toured overseas. But the music was mostly great. Bernice Reagon herself got up and sang a little during the curtain call. She rules.
Saturday we wandered around, went to the Royal Palace (which is totally lovely—somehow incredibly lavish, but on a more human scale than Versailles). The Spaniard only got one press ticket to see Pappano conduct the London Symphony Orchestra on tour (Bernstein, Shostakovich, Rachmaninov), so I took a nap before meeting up with him again to spend an evening in the gay neighborhood, Chueca. There, I randomly ran into an acquaintance from San Francisco. Yes, really. Even 5000 miles away, I cannot escape the little village that is my SF social circle. It gets weirder: the guy was in Madrid with a Spanish friend, who—you guessed it—went to college with my Spanish friend. In Santiago de Compostela. Am I more than three degrees removed from any homosexual on the planet?
Later that evening, we went to a straight hipster bar, La Via Lactea, where the Spaniard knew the bartender and could get us free drinks. The very best kind! Can I take this moment to complain about the absolute, complete worst thing about the United Kingdom? The absolute, complete worst thing about the UK is the legally-mandated 25 centiliter shot of liquor. In every bar in the country you are legally required to sell this thimbleful of alcohol as a "single." (I guess some bars give you 35 cl singles—big difference!) The point is: you can imagine my joy and delight and when I saw, in Madrid, the bartender get out the bottle of liquor and just pour it into the glass. For several seconds! Bliss!
As the Spaniards are famous for, the streets were still bustling at 4am, when we took a taxi home.
Sunday's outing was to El Escorial, Philip II's attempt to replicate the phenomenon of Versailles, keeping the nobility in check by drawing them all to a palace away from the capital. In a bizarre move that perhaps sheds light on some deep aspect of the Spanish character, the massive, massive building he built for this purpose is not a lavish pleasure-palace like Versailles, but rather it is the most depressing building I have ever seen in my life. It is absolutely monumental, and absolutely austere. Even the paintings, including some clear masterpieces, were painted in an enforced aesthetic of dark, dark sobriety. For example, the altarpiece of one of the smaller chapels is a Titian, and a really wonderful Titian at that. But it is also the single darkest Titian I have ever seen, portraying St. Lorenzo being burned alive on a grill. Did I mention that the entire castle is laid out like in the shape of gigantic grill, in order to recall the instrument of the patron saint's martyrdom? Cheery!
Oh and then there are the tombs—the only part of the castle that could be described as lavish. All the kings and queens of Spain are in single, very small oratory. It's hard to describe how creepy this is. elsewhere in the palace all the other princes and what-not are entombed all in a line. The royals who died before puberty are all placed in this big round marble thing that looks like a wedding cake. I took a picture of Don Carlos's tomb, which is, in fact, directly across from Elizabeth de Valois! [Non-opera people: ignore this shocking revelation.]
I should also mention that the Spaniard was deeply affected emotionally by all this weirdness. He said more than once, "the most powerful empire of the world memorializes its power by building... this!" In summary: El Escorial is way fucked up.
In light of a previous entry on foreign travel, you may be wondering if how I dealt in a country where I hardly spoke the language at all. The answer is: badly. I hid behind the Spaniard at all times. I tried to be discreet about this, but I probably wasn't. Why am I so afraid? And is this something I should just learn to live with about myself, or something I should actively try to fix?
Update: Trip to NYC officially scheduled. I arrive Monday June 20 and leave Sunday June 26. FYI...
posted by Grrg at 5:00 PM
1 Comments:
I'm not much for museums or paintings except for where they appeal to my uncouth and gross art tastes. Goya fits right into my art schemattaratta. Were his paintings massive? I'm getting shivery sprinkles up my spine just thinking about it.
Sounds like you had a lovely lovely trip full of funky fresh opera references to keep a young budding musicologist such as yourself happy. Yay! It has inspired me to think of my own summer travel plans.
BTW, your site is no longer classified as Pornography at work, which kind of makes me sad. Now I can't claim that I have a friend that runs a porn site anymore! (Bawling)
E-in-Jpn
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