When I fully regained my composure, I was in the back seat of a small European compact, hung over as all-hell. We had pulled into the tavern, and I was stumbling inside to have a life-saving beer, mid-morning. I was on my way to Madrid, the city that a few month ago I would have assumed would be the most interesting. After the previous weeks, I was skeptical.
I was dropped off outside a gigantic baby head at the Atocha train station. Madrid was on a class of its own in Spain. No other city I had been to (or would be to) rivaled it when it came to population, spread, or classical European artistry. It was truly a global capital, and I felt it the second I got there.
It was an hour and a half metro ride up to my suburban hotel, one that had been arranged by my travel partner. I met [NAME] in Barcelona a week back, and we had agreed to travel together to Madrid the following week. After the long trek to my hotel, it was time to set out to explore the city. I only had 48 hours.
We boarded a bus that weaved in and out the various minor streets of the Spanish capital. The sparsely populated suburbs quickly coagulated into the urban agglomeration I expected Madrid to be. Soon enough we were on Alcala Street, and the bus abruptly stopped in front of the Arc de Triomphe's smaller cousin. We were travelling on foot from this point onward.
A block away was city hall, with the Goddess Cibeles in front. This statue, Real Madrid's perennial celebration spot, had been as much of a part of mythology to me as Hercules or Zeus, and here it was, fleshed out in stone and water, in front of me. All this was real, I was in the city I had dreamed so much about.
If Cibeles was my Athens, El Prado was my Olympus. An imposing neoclassical block at the end of the Paseo del Prado, I had been looking forward to this moment since I stepped out of my plane in Barajas. The interior of the building was imposing just by its sheer size, not even to say anything about its aesthetics. My idea of the most ostentatious, illustrated European courts were dwarfed by the reality of El Prado's galleries. On top of the imposing vaulted interiors, every wall was covered by any and all of the paintings I had seen in my Art History books. El Greco, some Old Masters, and a smidgen of Impressionism; this building was a wormhole, making me lose complete track of time as I walked from exhibition to exhibition, engrossed by every detail and brushstroke that couldn't be discerned in my low-res text book pictures. (If I had to pick a place to stand in as purgatory in my head, it'd be the second floor of the Museo del Prado. Well lit vaults with a uniform gray marble interior, you are in a place that is paradoxically both bleak and beautiful; with framed windows that show a slight hint of the beauty of the outside world, but that are just shy of the real thing.)
Las Meninas was certainly a highlight. A huge painting that commandeers the imposing room it's in, the details and Easter Eggs I had read so much about jump out so much more in person, but to be quite frank, it wasn't as much as I thought it'd be.
I aimlessly wandered two flights of stairs down into the basement of the museum, and I followed a side hall to its terminus. The dimly lit room was gloomy and ominous. I felt the atmosphere press at my chest. I glanced at the first painting to my right: a goat headed figure sitting in front of a crowd. I had to look away, disturbed. My eyes subconsciously closed, a chill ran down my spine. I soon found that all the paintings in this room had the same effect on me. Goya's Black Paintings are physically harrowing, much to my own surprise. I never thought paintings on a wall would make me wince and look away, but standing in that room at that time made me feel a detached dread I had never felt before, and I haven't felt since.
As I walked out of Prado ashints of twilight bled through the air, but more than the light, it was the sheer sound that grabbed your attention. Indistinguishable background noise soon became the steady, bumping beat of an EDM track; and the white noise soon became the chatter of a large crowd. As I looked at the previously empty Paseo del Prado that we had walked down an innumerable amount of hours earlier, it had transformed into a moving, breathing stream of human beings. The closer I looked, the more surreal it looked. It belonged inside the museum. They all seemed to be wearing either pink tank tops or nothing at all, just showing off their muscular bodies. They were dancing and grinding on each other, kissing and embracing to the beat of the music. As I focused in to each particular group I soon realized they were almost exclusively men. The Madrid pride parade had begun, picked up, and was already near its climax on the Paseo del Prado by the time I exited the museum. I followed the throngs of thongs as they all danced and paraded merrily down the Spanish streets.
I sat down with [NAME] and enjoyed a nice, quiet breakfast. I honestly had too much to think about and take in, and I ignored [NAME]'s company, much to my present shame.
The rest of the trip was much less exciting than the first day. Yes, I got to visit the Bernabeu; but who wants me to wax poetic again about a grass field where grown men kick balls around? Especially when I did it a few blogs back (which is, at the precise moment I'm writing this sentence, two and a half years removed). I saw one of C. Ronaldo's Golden Boot and I saw 'La Decima'. It was a big deal for me back then, along with the €150 jersey I bought. We all make mistakes.
A block away was city hall, with the Goddess Cibeles in front. This statue, Real Madrid's perennial celebration spot, had been as much of a part of mythology to me as Hercules or Zeus, and here it was, fleshed out in stone and water, in front of me. All this was real, I was in the city I had dreamed so much about.
If Cibeles was my Athens, El Prado was my Olympus. An imposing neoclassical block at the end of the Paseo del Prado, I had been looking forward to this moment since I stepped out of my plane in Barajas. The interior of the building was imposing just by its sheer size, not even to say anything about its aesthetics. My idea of the most ostentatious, illustrated European courts were dwarfed by the reality of El Prado's galleries. On top of the imposing vaulted interiors, every wall was covered by any and all of the paintings I had seen in my Art History books. El Greco, some Old Masters, and a smidgen of Impressionism; this building was a wormhole, making me lose complete track of time as I walked from exhibition to exhibition, engrossed by every detail and brushstroke that couldn't be discerned in my low-res text book pictures. (If I had to pick a place to stand in as purgatory in my head, it'd be the second floor of the Museo del Prado. Well lit vaults with a uniform gray marble interior, you are in a place that is paradoxically both bleak and beautiful; with framed windows that show a slight hint of the beauty of the outside world, but that are just shy of the real thing.)
Las Meninas was certainly a highlight. A huge painting that commandeers the imposing room it's in, the details and Easter Eggs I had read so much about jump out so much more in person, but to be quite frank, it wasn't as much as I thought it'd be.
I aimlessly wandered two flights of stairs down into the basement of the museum, and I followed a side hall to its terminus. The dimly lit room was gloomy and ominous. I felt the atmosphere press at my chest. I glanced at the first painting to my right: a goat headed figure sitting in front of a crowd. I had to look away, disturbed. My eyes subconsciously closed, a chill ran down my spine. I soon found that all the paintings in this room had the same effect on me. Goya's Black Paintings are physically harrowing, much to my own surprise. I never thought paintings on a wall would make me wince and look away, but standing in that room at that time made me feel a detached dread I had never felt before, and I haven't felt since.
As I walked out of Prado ashints of twilight bled through the air, but more than the light, it was the sheer sound that grabbed your attention. Indistinguishable background noise soon became the steady, bumping beat of an EDM track; and the white noise soon became the chatter of a large crowd. As I looked at the previously empty Paseo del Prado that we had walked down an innumerable amount of hours earlier, it had transformed into a moving, breathing stream of human beings. The closer I looked, the more surreal it looked. It belonged inside the museum. They all seemed to be wearing either pink tank tops or nothing at all, just showing off their muscular bodies. They were dancing and grinding on each other, kissing and embracing to the beat of the music. As I focused in to each particular group I soon realized they were almost exclusively men. The Madrid pride parade had begun, picked up, and was already near its climax on the Paseo del Prado by the time I exited the museum. I followed the throngs of thongs as they all danced and paraded merrily down the Spanish streets.
I sat down with [NAME] and enjoyed a nice, quiet breakfast. I honestly had too much to think about and take in, and I ignored [NAME]'s company, much to my present shame.
The rest of the trip was much less exciting than the first day. Yes, I got to visit the Bernabeu; but who wants me to wax poetic again about a grass field where grown men kick balls around? Especially when I did it a few blogs back (which is, at the precise moment I'm writing this sentence, two and a half years removed). I saw one of C. Ronaldo's Golden Boot and I saw 'La Decima'. It was a big deal for me back then, along with the €150 jersey I bought. We all make mistakes.
No comments:
Post a Comment