Week 8

A lovely lovely week of food, art, walking and lots of good chat.

Well that is after a really tiring day in Biggleswade on Monday (it’s such a glamorous jetset lifestyle I lead – not!!?! – Sleazyjet Madrid to Luton and back within 24 hours – not fun). But it was good to meet mum and dad at Luton and travel back to Madrid with them.

It was such fun to have them here and to do a combination of showing them my favourite places and discovering new ones with them.

Highlights of the week included Lots and LOTS of great food.

We had a great tapas supper when we arrived back in Madrid (10.30pm) at Santa Barbara No.8 with the magic green salted pimientos (1 in 20 is s’posed to be spicy hot so choosing one is meant to be like Russian roulette!).

We ate a fabulous traditional hearty lunch in La Latina (Casa Lucio was full unfortunately, but the maitre d’ directed us to another great restaurant full of Spanish people having ‘proper big lunches’ – it was a Wednesday!). We somehow managed to have heuvos rotos, suckling pig and albondigas (meatballs) before rolling out of the restaurant at 5pm. A lovely man caught me looking at his pudding and trying to work out what it was, so with a big smile, he walked across the restaurant to come and offer me some (it was a bowl of fresh cherries). He did it with great drama, grace and much laughter from everyone, including us.

Breakfast of course was at the Café Commercial everyday (café con leche, zumo, churros, croissant & tostada de tomates). Fernando my lovely waiter (we’ve finally got to the stage of our relationship of exchanging names… you don’t want to rush these things!) was full of chat and banter and as always completely charmed us all.

We had a great lunch sitting on stools at a bar in Atocha (famoso por las bocadillos de calamares). It was fun to take mum and dad because it’s not the kind of place you’d go into in England (photos of the food on the walls, slot machines and everyone throwing their paper napkins on the floor – very madrileno!). But the food is great and it’s SO Madrid.

Plus a beautiful supper at Nina’s on Calle Manuela Malasana (just up the road). It’s a modern Spanish restaurant, uses beautiful fresh ingredients, cooked and presented with real style, and has a nice relaxed atmosphere. We even had a nice chat with Nina herself (bit of a character in the Madrid restaurant business I hear) who showed us her other place around the corner.

We did lots of walking. We walked from Seranno (where we found some shoes that I bought mum for her birthday in the Camper store), down through Retiro parque to Atocha. We did lots of wandering from Sol up to Plaza Major and around that area; from Opera through to La Latina and back to my flat; and then on Friday around Chueca. But of course with plenty of diversions on route.

We went to the Palacio Real, which I enjoyed much more than I expected. It’s a really exuberant display of wealth and status. It has a wonderful big staircase to swish up in your long skirts, huge chandeliers, and the most amazing wall coverings, carpets and mirrors.

It’s a series of chambers, each decorated completely differently from the next so it’s like walking through a children’s picture book, where every time you turn the page you get a instant hit of colour and shapes and mood that’s different from the last. So you go from rich dark red velvets with candles, through to bright blues and florals, then into soft warm golds with a Chinese influence, and then into decorated Spanish tiles that are bright and shiny but cold.

It gives you a little thrill of anticipation as you go through each door, which doesn’t disappoint. It’s really vibrant and opulent, but done with a sense of fun rather than just imposing. My favourite was the chinoiserie room with hand-embroidered wall coverings, huge mahogany mirrors and a crazy ceiling with 3D vines and flowers all over it and enormous chandeliers. Gorgeous. Might work in my flat in Putney… will give it some thought!!

We also found a brilliant (huge) dance shop that sells flamenco dresses. I have a real thing about wanting one at the moment. You know, for parties, Sunday best, shopping at Sainsburys, that kind of thing. Imagine how fun it would be to do my first crit in January back in Camberwell in a full-length flamenco dress. I imagine myself nonchalantly leaning against the wall in the studio, brushing down my ruffles, a plastic rose behind my ear, saying… “yes, well obviously being in madrid last term has had a profound affect on the development of my practice…” in a proper ‘art school’ pretentious way. It would be so good!

The trouble is that they are stupidly expensive. I tried a couple on in this shop (unfortunately not allowed to take photos – like wedding frock shops!) so I can’t share the full brilliance of it with you, but I found one that I completely LOVED! It was black with huge primary colour spots on it. Huge ruffles on the shoulders and from the knees out. It was gloriously, marvellously, totally over the top and it looked wonderful.

“Why, oh why,“ I hear you cry, “did you not purchase it on the spot?”. Kind readers I share your sense of wonder. Unfortunately the slight issue of €480 stood before me and this utter gorgeousness. Mum and dad did of course offer to contribute so I could have it for Christmas (yes I know I’m 34 but they did!). However sense prevailed, and although of course I could wear it for shopping at Sainsburys, I had to be honest about how often I really would… I think the ruffles might get caught in the wheels of the trolley and I’m not sure it would be warm enough in the frozen peas aisle.

So for now it will remain as a beautiful image in my memory, of the kind of haughty gypsy girl that I must have been in another life. Sometimes things are better that way.

We did that night go to a Flamenco show. And it was amazing. Not what I expected at all. The girls weren’t in big fancy dresses and it wasn’t the kind of choreographed touristy thing I imagined we’d get. It was really raw and emotional and I found myself quite taken aback by it.

It was like jazz improvisation in a way. There was so much interaction between the musicians and the dancers and so although the songs were obviously from a genre (ie: some were tragic, some were boisterous, some seductive in their style), the music and the dancing evolves throughout the song – playing off each other. Both the singers and the dancers seemed like instruments and it was like they used their bodies to make sound and music. The dancers were the percussion and were setting the beats, but the singers and musicians were driving it forward at times, and responding to the dancers pace at others.

There was lots of calling and encouragement from the dancers sitting watching each other when it wasn’t their turn – for both the dancers and the musicians. And there was real appreciation of a good move, or a particularly emotional moment. There was a real sense of teamwork, and as if it’s about group participation to make something happen between you all, rather than someone standing up to show off. Although of course each person's talent was extra-ordinary. The skill of the footwork particularly was stunning! It wasn’t pretty or prissy at all. It was tough and aggressive and proud and intense. They were banging at their chests, and pulling at their clothes as they danced. Two of the girls’ hair clips flew out because they danced with so much energy, and by the end of the songs, they were sweating, panting and their hair was all over the place.

I really loved it, and want to find somewhere more ‘authentic’ to see it again. It felt very real to me, but we were in a flamenco club where you sit and have dinner and then watch the performers, so although we didn’t go to one of the big touristy places, it was still probably half Spanish, half tourists there.

This week I’ve seen loads of art, and that’s been great too.

Although I did have a bad hour in the Thyssen-Bornemisza. I went to meet mum and dad there at 4pm, straight from a drawing class which had once again upset me. I was very annoyed at myself. The teacher liking my structure, came over and started showing me how to shade “properly” by shading in huge sections of my drawing, which I then carried on for an hour. At the end of the class I realised that my picture now looks just like everyone else’s, which felt AWFUL. Suddenly it wasn’t my drawing any more and I was so annoyed at myself for having just done what I was told rather than think about what I wanted to be making. I hated it.

Two girls in the class only realised after an hour that they had the wrong drawings and they had been drawing on each others’ picture for an HOUR!! Emma and I thought it was funny at the time – but it’s also tragic!

Anyhow, going from that into the Thyssen and looking at someone’s weird personal collection of 18th century still lifes, and dutch and American and then impressionist paintings, all looking the same and displayed in the same kind of fancy gold frames in an uber-formal way. I decided that the whole world of art is fucked and just becomes like a collection of shoes for rich people and is a stupid thing to waste your time doing.

Poor mum and dad, it being their first day (AND it was raining on them – the first time it’s rained since I’ve been here!) found me close to tears and we had to leave and go for a wander (in the rain!) instead, while I ranted about how stupid Spain is.

Fortunately a couple of things re-engaged me with art having a point (or at least some joy!).

Andy Goldsworthy in the Palacio de Cristal in Retiro Parque was first stop on my rehabilitation programme! It’s a stunning location. In the nineteenth century glass house in the middle of the park. He’s ‘borrowed’ scots pine logs from the forests to the north of Madrid that are on-route to become commercial products and has made these wonderful huge domed structures from them. After the exhibition they will continue on their journey to become everyday products.

Seeing the logs inside the glass is strange when you’re standing amongst still growing trees in the park. As you walk in you’re hit by the smell of freshly chopped wood (smell isn’t used enough in art I think – it has such an immediate impact that it instantly conjures up lots of memories and associations, in a deeply personal way). The structures are beautiful (both inside and out) and they reminded me of log cabins (they have a pioneering optimism to them) and made me feel as I walked inside like a baby bird in a nest (quite protective). And yet as you look up and realise that all of these logs above you are all just balanced it also feels really quite precarious. Like a game of jenga where if you pulled one out the whole lot could fall. It’s obvious how it’s all made, and yet there’s such a wonder in it because of the scale and the patience required to do it. Maybe that’s kind of like nature itself.

Annoyingly (and very Madrileno!) they were very strict about not standing in the wrong places and had lots of ‘security’ telling you off if your toes were on the line marking the no-go areas!

Perhaps that’s why I loved Sherri Hay’s show “Disasters” at Begona Malone which we kind of stumbled upon (looking for another gallery that’s now closed down). It was definitely the thing I’ve loved most since I’ve been in Spain.

She had made about 20 crystal ball-sized snow storms and each one was displayed on it’s own shelf around the gallery. You picked them up and gave them a good big shake and then watched it all settle. In each one was a collection of little figures, cars, train wrecks, bridges, houses with roofs destroyed, trees etc. As you watched them settle you saw the devastation you had created. Cars landing on top of people, trees landing inside houses.

It was like being responsible for the cyclon in Wizard of Oz. Or like seeing your actions result in the Madrid train bombing carnage. All in miniture inside a bubble world. Like being god it was wickedly joyful. You shook really hard and smiled at your sense of power as it all got stirred up and then watched with a guilty kind of horror as it settled in a specific way, forcing you to imagine if it were real. It was unnervingly fun being so evil. And completely addictive.

Downstairs she was showing intricate charcol drawings that similarly put you as the audience in the role of semi-passive but culpable witness. They were like nightmare-dream narratives, very Goya-esque. All focused around the circle of a circus ring. And all shown from the perspective of a member of the audience. Someone sitting near the back. And in the circus ring were terrible terrible things.

In one, 3 people had been set on fire and there was a queue of volunteers of people who clearly wanted to be next to partake in the spectacle.

In another people with strapped on wings were throwing themselves from high up in the circus tent and falling. Like Icarus (with his wax wings), or like Lucifer (fallen angel), it wasn’t clear whether they were being told to jump or whether they were actively participating, but they were all falling not flying.

In a third a circle of people stood around the edge of the ring with rifles shooting out at the audience (some of whom had guns and were shooting back) and in the centre was someone dressed in a fluffy bunny outfit, standing very still.

In another, in the ring children were having rides on unicorns at the front, while at the back a large tree with many branches was full of hangman nooses and people were climbing up and hanging themselves.

They were very dark and terrible. Very dreamlike. A commentary on celebrity perhaps and the need we have for spectacle. I couldn’t help thinking of Big Brother when people say “but you chose to be in it, you should have known” while we all relish people self-destructing for our entertainment.

I loved that in her work you cannot be passive. You have to pick up and shake the peice to make the work in the snow storms. Or in the drawings, you cannot escape being placed within the audience of the action (because of the perspective it’s drawn). And therefore you become responsible for the cruelty because you have the sense that without a witness it wouldn’t be happening.

Today Emma and I went down to La Casa Encendida and saw the Warhol sobre Warhol show that opened on Friday. It was better than I thought it would be, and connected with this sense of the tragic in celebrity. It brought to my mind the problem with trying to represent someone and separating out ego from "the truth". It’s interesting what happens when you try to distill something (or particularly perhaps, someone) to an essence. There was a tiny Polaroid of Mick Jagger taken in 1976 (looking young, sexy, cocky and vulnerable) and then a series of prints and drawings distilling him into an icon. And of course while something interesting happens, it also becomes empty and just the abstract idea of someone. We think so much about ourselves as being not about our bodies (ie: we’re really deep down about our souls not the outer stuff). But in trying to get a distillation, in simplifying you also lose so much vigour and realness and it’s the complexity and the NOT oneness that actually makes us, I think. It was surprisingly thought-provoking, since I’ve never really connected to Warhol before.

The other lovely art thing this week was seeing mum so excited about seeing Guernica. She loved it, and had to go back to see it again, before we left the Reina Sofia. It was a real pleasure to witness how much it moved her.

I’ve done a bit of work this week (well I’m thinking of this blog as work too now). Yesterday having spent the day writing, thinking, reading (finished my ‘On Cubism’ book that’s been the weighty tome I’ve been working through for the last couple of weeks) I realised that I needed some fresh air, so got the metro to Casa de Campo (think it’s kind of like Hampstead Heath – city countryside!) and after a bit of a walk discovered the zoo.

I decided on a whim to go in, and although I usually hate zoos (I find them depressing) I actually really enjoyed it. My camera was out of battery so I went to the shop and bought a zebra pencil and an elephant sharpener, and did a whole load of quick (had to be because nothing would stay still!) sketches of the animals.

I really got into doing sketches of the gorillas. One was very funny and kept readjusting, but it was as if he was a life model and he got into strange positions and held each pose for about 3 minutes. It was really good. Because they are SO human like, and yet have such different proportions you really have to look carefully rather than draw from your mind. Plus because their bodies work differently to ours (eg: the feet curl all differently), the drawings actually look very much like my strange distorted body parts that I was doing from my odd objects last term. It was funny but nice to find a connection there in such a strange place (the gorilla house in Madrid zoo!).

I’m continuing to stay pretty chipper about what unknown work will come from all of this. I read (in about 48 hours) a great modern gothic romance this week (The Thirteenth Tale) and in it a Miss-Havisham-type novelist explains how her creativity works. I rather liked this approach, and intend to take it as my own (although maybe without the lonely and bitter old dame thing):

“Life is compost. All my life and all my experience, the events that have befallen me, the people I have known, all my memories, dreams, fantasies, everything I have ever read, all of that has been chucked onto the compost heap where over time it has rotted down to a dark, rich, organic mulch. The process of cellular breakdown makes it unrecognisable. Other people call it the imagination. I think of it as a compost heap. Every so often I take an idea, plant it in the compost, and wait. It feeds on that black stuff that used to be a life, takes its energy for its own. It germinates. Takes root. Produces shoots. And so on and so forth.”

Off now to the Yelmo cinema in Tirso de Molina to see Elizabeth (VO ingles, con subtitlos en espanol). Looking forward to seeing those dastardly Spanish attempting to invade with their armada and bring their strange Spanish ways to British shores, but being kept in their place by the heroic English…! Ole!