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There is a great number of little cafes about. They seem to be part of the alternative scene, if that's the right word because so many more young Carcelonians look "alternative" that it's hardly a scene but almost the norm. These cafes, someo f them go by the name of teteria (the tea version of a cafe, very popular in those parts of Spain that have a strong Arabic influence) are cosy hangabouts, with a lovely atmosphere of relaxed chatting. It's hard to generalise though because they are all different. There are the ones attached to museums in some yard in the old town, like the Cafe Textil. There's the teteria near the hostal with its high ceiling, no door, but an open portal hung with a huge textiles that cover the opening in part, creating a half dim, half sunny and bright, wiry feel. The decor is creative, lots of art work, paintings, sometimes little monsters, teapots in teterias, more in the lineof pastries in the cafes. Some are also meeting places for the creative parts of the populations, have literary evenings, sell artwork and have noticeboards and other info lying about. They are perfect for late breakfasts, great meeting places. A world apart from the traditional cafe bars of Spain, where middle aged to old men smoke in gruffy places. The cafe Amb Llet is of the gruffier type, but nice too: it serves Spanish breakfast and strong cafe with plenty of milk, just right to put back the lifelight, next a freshly squeezed orange juice and the famous ensaimada, a Catalan speciality, a pastry, light, fluffy, sweet but not too much so, the perfect start to another day.
Last night, the nightlife found us. No idea how it happened. We were looking for a cinema with a good film, either in English or maybe even following the Lord of the Rings theme of the day and finding out how the dubbed Spanish version of it sounds. No luck though. Our last attempt was the Icaria, a massive 18 screen v.o. (version origianl) cinema, out at the Olympic Village, i.e. not exactly centre of town or near to any area where lots of people live. But not decent film. Strange that such a huge cinema has no arthouse films and that it's located in the godforsaken modern construction of the Olympic Village, but we were soon to find out why.
Looking for a decent cafe or bar, with the help of our guide book, we landed in the u-shaped harbour area, by the name of Moll. It is a yacht harbour. Surrounded by two storeys of tent-like constructions, which turned out to be night clubs, mostly empty at this time, safe for half naked big boobed pole dancers and security guards. The other side was host to the same number of restaurants. It was impossible to walk past without a waiter jumping out at you and praising the incomparable food and prices - at midnight. No prices for drinks were displayed but we'd already be warned theat they are beyond budget. The music was thumping for miles out of these places, no punters, but plenty of noise. Allthe few customers were English.
We passed up and down twice, the first revolting mix of cheap tent-concoctions and bass thumps drawing us in a little, creating some sort of desire to dance which was definitely well countered by the sight of the many pole dancers and the scarcely dressed waitresses standing on the counter. We were so clearly out of place. All the clubs were open, if they have doors, these are ajar, and the music blasts out to the sea.
The evening had begun with our decent from Montjuic along the magic springs, i.e. fountain displays of wastiing water. But it was quite impressive nonetheless. Once at the grand boulevard that leads up to Placa Espanya, we decided to give another vegetarian restaurant a try. The old and grimy Barri Xino was our choice of the night. We arrived for 8.30pm, very hungry indeed. Of course it openen only at 9pm, so we went for another coffee before coming back bang on time. The doors had magically opened this time, but only to be told that the kitchen would only open at 9pm. For a moment I was sure they had a different time sphere in restaurants to the rest of the world, and close to tears of hunger I cried: but it is 9pm!!! The waitress checked her watch, and to her surprise I was right. The food was good, but very little for two hungry stomachs. Ach well.
Miro, 1959: "I think of my studio as a vegetable garden. Artichokes here. Potatoes over there. The leaves have to be cut so that the vegetables can grow. At a certain moment the plant has to be pruned. I work like a gardener or a wine grower. Everything takes time. My vocabulary of forms, for instnace, did not come to me all at once. It developed almost in spite of me. Things followed their natural course. They grow, they ripen. You have to graft. You have to water, like you do for lettuce. Things ripen in my mind."
There was a vegetable garden in the inner yard of the Fundacio Miro. I felt like digging in there, a bit at home in a strange place.
Lunch under a palm tree on a sunny bench in a jardin on Montjuic over, my skin burns, we shall now be off to stride slowly across the high ground, keeping a watchful eye on the city to our feet, as the Spanish did, ever ready to shoot Catalan rebels from up here.
Wow. Amazing effects on perception, balance and relation between self and surroundings, all brought upon by colour, light and pattern. Might be worthwhile to follow up on the internet. Well, the drug element was physical in these ieces, in the form of leaves and tablets. Butin spite of the obvious attempt to translate a high into art, it was enjoyable just as it was, with patterns made from realistic elements (such as bugs). The attraction is both the pattern and the symmetry, it invites a closer look which then gives away the complexity and the attention to minute detail.
In other parts of the museum, one can admire art by artists who gave their work to Miro. Some of them I liked a lot, but unfortunately they weren't included in the museum's postcard selection. As ever. The art I like can never be taken home. All that remains are faint memories, sometimes sketches if they are sketchable (and you forget, as I write this up three years later, I can't even remember anything at all).
Best of all was the comfortable sofa provided to watch a frame by frame imitation of Hitchcock's Rear Window. Bliss. The film was in French and just the right unintelligible background sound that makes you go asleep in a comfi sofa... (was it supposed to scare me or lull me to sleep? Whatever)
While my friend makes up Lord of the Rings related crosswords during my ever longer bouts of reading this magic book for the first time, I see ringwraths in Miro's black figures, both in their half human and massive bird incarnations. I'm sure Miro read Tolkien. In the centre, there is a place and street by the name of Regomir. More Lord of the Rings undertones. So, is Aragorn actually related to the Spanish Kingdom of Aragon? The King of Aragon incidentally liberated Spain from the Islamic reign.
I am still considering whether taking the cable car to Montjuic Castell is an option or not. It can't be as high up as it's a link down to the sea, but still... I simply am afraid of heights, and machines that lift me up and dangle in the sky.
Today is Good Friday and except for the tobacconists, all tourist related shops are open. So no stamps, but there are always means... thanks to souvenir shops. They seem to use a different numeric system, as 7 stamps of 51 cents came to well over 4 Euros. The shopkeeper insisted on speaking English, which was a shame, as his English was incomprehensible. My questioning face then received a nasty laughter, and the sarcastic comment "Have I not made you a good price?" to which I thought my bit and left without discussion. Hope his conscience keeps him well awake tonight.
God no. 1: OBATALA Aged creator pristine sage, brilliant sunfather, owner of shade frail octogenarian, ethical role-model cool head, lustrous billowy cloud, sylvan dweller downer of all heads, molder of children worker of clay, father of misfits, and giants father of adornment, sovereign of white cloth gentle stomach and weak eyes God of laughter
God no. 2: SHANGO
El rey del guerrero el cuarto alafin de oyo general brillante corazon robusto, leon de la selva sobresaliente casanova amoroso gastronomo y comilon el que ilumina la oscuridad castigador de los mentirosos y los burladores tirador del rayo y el relampago dueno del fuego dueno del gran caballo mago, inventor, adivinador, el heroe tragico el dios de la esperanza.
The other gods are: BABALU AIYE OSUN YEMOJA OGUN ELEGBA
These Gods are what myths and a good epic story are made of. Got to find otu more. Apity that they didn't provide a leaflet to go with it. The actual art work was a shrine, surrounded by food stuffs and every day articles. The shrine included lifesize depictions of these Gods, on photo paper. That was 3-D: if looked at from the left, yet other images appeared, their Christian counterpart depictions. The food stuffs, holy foods, were mostly everyday type boxes, fruits and cans, but also included sprays and incense. These all had special uses: one for luck, one for gold, one for hate, one for peace,one for everything, one for gambling. Very useful.
(note from a few years later, 2006: I've been to Mexico and Cuba since, and have come across variations of this. The art I saw in 2003 was definitely Mexican, and the food stuff in boxes is sold on every indigenous market in southern Mexico. Also the idea of having Christian counterparts, saints who take on the characteristics of native gods, is alive and kicking in Mexico. Orisas, however, to me are voodoo inspired gods of Cuba, brought to the island by African slaves, thus are of Caribbean origin. I cannot fathom how native American and African traditions blended into this artwork and in this respect still need to find out more...)
RINZEN jap. = sudden awakening, enlightenment invitation to reflection or contemplation also piece of art by Antoni Tapies it advocates art to be an instrument of thought. At the same time, and from within the context of social action, it is a plea against war, violence and death.
a saw could be a submarine a nail could be a missile a shirt could be a uniform an old can could be a tank sticks of wood could be guns old newspapers could be bureaucratic documents something burned otu could be a bonfire O.K. Now planks could be mountains a round rusty piece of metal: the moon buckets could be stars sand could be the desert a pool of water: the ocean an old frame: outer space junk could be the war academy Then I can put the submarine on the mountains. the missile on the moon. the uniforms around the stars. the tank in the desert. the guns into the ocean. the bureaucratic documents in outer space. I can set the war academy on fire. It will become A CONTRIBUTION TO THE ART OF PEACE all this to be built along the Rhine with Harmut Karninski The 7 works will be left on the spot. 7 photos will be taken, then 7 silkprints made, grouped together in a portfolio outlining the spirit and method of the work. Düsseldorf, '71
feast of colour, shape, people, smell and sound. There's a decent sized stall just for bananas. Baby banans, bananas from Ecuador, black huge bananas, yellow, green too. There are fruit stalls with fruits I've never seen or tasted before. The same goes for their names. For the tourists, the marketeers cut up their fruit into plastic boxes and sell them at a Euro each. A lot of work for a very tasty fruit salad. Countless fish stalls with fish that are first encounters to me too. The next stall has dried fruits, then there's one with nuts, the next with spices. Poulty that still looks like the real thing - feet and head inclusive, to be removed at the point of sale. Another stall has eggs: big medium, small and huge. No idea what animal laid those, but they are big indeed. Finally, bottles of freshly squeezed juices - but not just your average taronja/naranja, but mango and papaza are on offer too. A kilo of strawberries? Fresonas, mind you , not the tiny ones that grow in my garden. This is food heaven, the land of milk and honey.
The countless wee shops in the tiny streets of the Barri Gotic are a colourful lot. Shops with ethnic stuff, all the Spanish hippy heart could wish for, are all over the place. Colours of clothes an djewellry, accessories etc are bright, shiny and all is big and visible. So are the people. More hippies than anywhere, everything goes and all is loud, bright and in the middle of the street - from cafe to teteria to anti-war demos and anti-war balcony art There's even an exhibition of the latter, jsut as there's a book on why Catalunya in particular opposes the war. It's in Catala only it goes without saying, which is why I haven't bought it yet. But this would indicate that it's something to do with anti-Spanish sentiment, which is expressed by opposing what the Spanish government supports. In this instance, the war in Iraq. I know the feeling from Scotland.
Xs... ...big ones, small ones, black ones, brown ones. Earthen materials and art that combines the material nature or the nature of the material intrinsically with its forma nd color. It is the thing and yet abstract art. A violin on wavey sheet metal: abstract form of square and curve without losing its original nature and character. I like the earthen feel to Tapies' paintings that make such generous use of paint that it is a 3D relief. Always down to earth, to its material, it never hides where it comes from, yet it also transforms it to a higher ground. There are concrete elements in his work. Like actual things (a violin, a bed, a chair, a table, clothes etc) but the general aspect of each piece is abstract. So the X is more obvious than a footprint in the same piece, the depicted head in "Urbilder" takes second row to the play of dark and light colour and form, the components of the face. The material quality is further emphasised by the titles. Such as: "Table turned upside down" for a piece which is just that, The table is painted on its underside. It's simple and doesn't attempt to hide the material quality of the tabel, yet it's part and focus of it. The colour slightly changes the underside of the table, its hue, and makes you notice the table. It's still a table though, but more, it is also art.
All these things that you forget time and time again, the restaurant hours and siesta colsure of shops between 2 and 5pm. As if I'd never been to this country before. I saw a fruit today on the market, very strange shape, don't know what it is but would like to try it tomorrow.
I read a book about urban planning in Barca and although it's not perfect, they've done some important things just right. Traffic is out of the city - not that it's pedestrianised, but the lanes in the old town are so narrow that traffic is just n ot the fun thing to do. Either you need special permission to enter or you simply can't. Not that you'd want to, but in other Spanish towns/cities, people would do it anyhow. Not here. The main through traffic has been diverted underground - e it roads, metro or train. So on a rainy day like this, all there is to maneouver are open umbrellas by averagely smaller people.
The street artists have magically transformed into umbrella sellers. Very considerate I say. Every two metres they position a brolly somewhere along your eyline and call "paraguas - umbrella" so nicely, as if they were there just for your own personal comfort that I feel obliged to answer in much the same manner.
Someone is sitting underneath some archway with two budgies. Just like that. Two wee birds, sitting there with him. Without cage that is. I stood in awe, stopped and stared. The man smiled broadly at me. I've no idea as to why he was sitting there. No sign of begging or tricks that could get him money, just the birds cheerfully chirping away and brightening up the grey Bacelona rain.
It's a very cosmopolitan place. Lotso f tourists but also clearly many immigrants, a wealth of languages to be heard and truly as much Spanish as Catalan. In fact, of the 1.7 million people, almost half are Spanish speaking due to waves of internal immigration, mainly from southern Spain. But in spite of the metropolitan nature, and the ability to speak English and French too, there's a game being played here. You ask something in English, and sure enough, people refuse to speak anything but Spanish or Catalan. You ask in Spanish, and the person will speak Catalan or English back at you. You ask in Catalan, and you get Spanish or English thrown back at you. Mostly with an impolite Eh??? Politeness. Well, if you're used to the British way, you will be last in every queue and struggle. So throwing away British politeness, adapting to the more direct, yet friendly Barca way, is recommended. Push your way a bit more, interrupt, call for attention, make jokes. No "Excuse me please" here, people rather gently you out of their way. Gently, and with a smile. And if you don't push yourself, well tough luck.
