New Banner

Hola.

Yesterday I got home and bagged all my other plans to work on a new banner for the blog. I hadn't needed to use Photoshop in a while and wanted to fool around with it a bit to make sure I was still proficient.

The banner was made from a quick watercolor portrait study I did with a student a while back. She and I painted each other but my painting of her looked more like me than it did of her. This I layered with a photo I took of myself and matched up the eyes. The colors of both the photo and the watercolor have been enhanced to make the words stand out in certain ways and to keep the colors brilliant even with the layering. The Spanish phrases are phrases I use the most and therefore they pop out of conversations I overhear on the metro and in the street, especially if I'm not paying attention. The phrases in English are lines from songs I listen to often on my iPod when moving around the city.

It was a pain to figure out the sizing etc... If I get bored in the future I might tweak it some more. I hope you like it!

Porque lo digo yo

Hola amigos. Here are a few samples of the things I've written in the past two weeks. Just a few thoughts rolling around inside me. Disfruta.

February 6, 2009

It’s been a while since I’ve written much about my life here in Madrid, or inside my head for that matter. School and wild dreams with a touch of exhaustion have claimed my full attention for several months. There is so much to say that I’m tempted to say nothing of importance at all.

I just returned from a concert near Plaza de Oriente. The performers were students of Istituto Internacional de Musica De Camera de Madrid. The music was so beautiful and the acoustics of the hall so divine, I was kept at rapt attention. This is rare for me. Even during the most beautiful classical performances of my life I’ve had trouble keeping my mind on the music; my hands are usually occupied by note taking or sketching to keep me awake and focused. But tonight I was in full appreciation. Perhaps it was due to the ages of the performers: they were all my peers. It made me ache for all my musician friends: their loyalty, their passion, and their talent. I often wonder what music they’re studying and how much they’ve grown musically.

I did end up sketching a bit during the concert. I brought out my little green book during a Roberto Gerhard trio for violin, ‘cello, and piano. It feels good to sketch clumsily with my black pen again. My little sketch is incomplete and imbalanced but the fact that I was unafraid (especially with the musicians from the first half sitting directly behind me) is such a big step for me. I’m feeling a wave of artistic confidence lately and I should take advantage of that feeling as much as possible.

Speaking of which, I’ve decided to come home to Bellingham this summer. I’ll be living with my parents in beautiful Sudden Valley. Hopefully the seclusion and the change in atmosphere will spur more artistic fervor, but I fear that being near friends and family again will distract me. Sigh… I often wonder if I’m too boring to be an artist. Thus the travel: the more I experience, the more I’ll have to express. Bring on the tragic love affairs! Bring on the strife! Haha….

That’s really not the point for me. Though I’m drawn to dramatic and vibrant art full of emotion and symbolism, I don’t want to create art that reminds people of life’s tragedies. I subscribe to Matisse’s school of thought: Matisse likened his paintings to sinking back into a comfortable chair. He wanted to remind his viewers of all that is beautiful in this world. He painted with light and air—often without any gravity at all.

Today I read a story to my second graders, “Miss Rumphius.” The tale was about a woman’s life, from little girl to old woman. As a little girl, her grandfather asked what she wanted to do with her life. She said that she wanted to see far off places, to meet strange and interesting friends. And when she grew old, she wanted to live out her days by the sea, just like her grandfather. Her grandfather said, “That’s all well and good, but you must promise me one thing. You must also give something beautiful to the world.” That’s how I feel about my life (including living by the sea!).

I want to celebrate the world’s beauty. I want to remind people of all the wonderful feelings and sights they’ve experienced. I want people to challenge their definition of beauty and begin to recognize beauty in the smallest gestures, the most subtle moments. That’s why I want to be an artist.

At the end of the story, the woman returns from her travels with gray hair and an aching back. She breathes in the salty air and plants a beautiful garden. She still hasn’t given her beautiful thing yet. One day she walks all over the island spreading lupine seeds. In the spring when the flowers bloom, the entire island is a beautiful palette of purples and pinks. Perhaps my contribution of beauty in this world will be small, but I hope that like the lupines in the story, the seeds I sow will reseed on the wind every year until the Lupine Lady and I are distant memories.


February 15, 2009

A question has been rumbling around inside me for a while. It seems like such a trivial question. Inspired by new friends, new feelings, and new experiences, it rears its head after long nights out and difficult days at work:

What is age?

A silly question, yet those three words do not accurately describe the question that swells within me. Let me explain further.

Yesterday I went to a Valentine’s party. All week I had expected to wear a slim fitting dress to the party. At the last moment I felt my body contort into a shell of discomfort and shyness. I saw my modest and “cute” body as a child’s body. I saw the dress as an affectation. I was posing, pretending to be sexy. I was pretty, yes, even with my little belly pushing at the middle of the dress; the little black dress suits my body well. But my shoulders rose to shrug in protection of my neck, my back stiff, my legs feeling utterly naked. I felt like I was the little girl in my parent’s bathroom sneaking bits of my mother’s makeup.

I chose instead an outfit I often wear to school—the low neckline of the sweater satisfyingly alluring and yet the color and cut much more appropriate for my second grade classroom than a Valentine’s party. The skirt long, only showing off a slight curve of my calves. But I was comfortable. In this armor I felt confident enough to flirt subtly with a gorgeous Atlanta banker, dance uninhibited in the living room and later the club…. Yet I still felt this lingering quake in my self-confidence, this fear that somehow my exterior will reveal a different person than I want to be.

“I am this great, unstable mass of blood and foam and no one in her right mind would make my heart her home. My heart is an autoclave.” –Mountain Goats

This life here in Spain is a transient cycle of emotions and insecurities. One weekend I’ll spend immersed in the lives of my older friends, basking in their appreciation of my young energy and their praise of my maturity. One friend once described me as having a “40 year old soul.” The irony being that I probably don’t understand entirely what he means by that but will understand when I’m older. Another weekend I’ll exhaust myself by spending time among the tipsy and aching conversations of the younger groups. I am not quite comfortable with either world, though I enjoy both in varying degrees. I often wonder if I felt this feeling of displacement “back home” and the rose tinted lens through which I see that old life has made me forget. More likely the limiting social circles of expatriates amplify the feeling.

Does everyone feel this strange feeling of loneliness and affectation? Is this the human desperation that nurtures art, music, religion, and sex? The hope of making the fleeting moments of settled peace permanent is often the beginning of a work of art.

Sometimes I stubbornly seize this lonely feeling and want to conquer it, beat it back and transform it into a violent strength. These are the days that I walk heavily down the streets listening to powerful songs with my back straight and my love of Madrid casting all the rain and cold aside. I laugh at myself and grin foolishly—Madrileños staring after me. These are the days I feel ageless.

El Escorial and the Valley of the Fallen

The Monastary at El Escorial is beautiful. For a small fee you can tour the building and see the large collection of masterwork paintings and frescos. The virtually unknown masterpieces were commissioned by Tinteretto, Goya, El Greco, and many other greats. They are very well maintained and much of the furniture are works of art as well. The royal crypts are located in the lower levels of the monastary and are an opulent reminder of the power and wealth of Spain. 

Valley of the Fallen

The Valley of the Fallen is a monument erected to memorialize the fallen civilians and soldiers of the Spanish Civil War (well, those that were on Franco's side, that is). It's also Francisco Franco's tomb. The monument sits atop a small mountain overlooking a valley. The cross is probably several hundred feet tall and the archway is about a block long at least. The Cathedral is technically larger than the Vatican (which is supposed to be the largest a catholic cathedral can be but they fudged the entry way so it doesn't really start being a cathedral until you're in the nave). The Cathedral entrance is in the side of the mountain and the crest of the domed ceiling is in direct alignment with the massive cross atop the mountain. A cross with real wood supposedly chopped by Franco himself is also aligned directly below the massive stone cross. Constructed in the 1950s, the art decorating the cathedral is kind of an art deco revival with classical motifs as well as tapestry reproductions. Hooded figures with bowed heads guard the entrance to the nave barring the weapons that symbolize different branches of the military. Everything is stone and concrete. It's haunting, sparse, and a powerful experience. Franco and his head hancho have their own central resting place. Fresh spittle glistened on the stone marking Franco's tomb on the floor of the Cathedral. It was so quiet, so cold, and very creepy. 

(If you'd like to learn more about the Spanish Civil War, read Ghosts of Spain)

Trying to look warm. 

Emily is cold. 

Molly is cold too. 

A HUGE steel door. The art here is in a style I really enjoy, which made it even more of a conflicting place. The monument is meant to honor lost lives, but it also acts as a reminder and veneration to a very violent and arguably corrupt man. The art is spooky, yet beautiful. The effect is a conflict of beauty and repulsion, remembrance and silence. 

The monument overlooks a vast valley. A great view. 

The bus comes to the monument once a day and returns to pick you up about two hours later. The monument can easily be seen in one hour. There is nothing warm about this place in January. Snow was on the ground in patches. I have never been so cold in my life. I made Molly and Emily play camera games with me to distract from the cold. They're good sports. 

This doesn't even come close to demonstrating how huge this place is. It's unbelievable. 

The Alhambra

The Alhambra was built by the Nasrid kings long ago. It still stands--fortress, palaces, and gardens. A religious, royal, and military structure build in the moorish and muslim style, this place is amazing. Arguably one of the wonders of the world. The Sierra Nevadas loom above and the city of Granada spreads out below. We visited on a foggy, rainy day. The towers and spires broke through the mist as though ghosts were presiding over our visit.

Across the ravine/valley from the Alhambra is the Generalife (pronounced "heneral-eefay"), the summer home of the royalty. You know, just in case you wanted to get away....

View of the Alhambra from the Generalife gardens.

January is a solemn month to visit the gardens. There's something about winter roses that is totally captivating.

The Moors were devoted to water. They called Spain "Iberia" or Land of Rivers. I suppose Northern Africa makes Spain look positively wet. The Alhambra has many reflection pools and tiny irrigated canals and fountains running through the buildings and out-buildings. The sound of running water permeates the silence of the grounds.

The courtyard of the Lions. They were rennovating so I didn't take many pictures.

Bumbershoot girls.

I fell in love with Washington Irving while at the Alhambra. The audio tour is excerpts from Tales of the Alhambra, the book he wrote about his months living in the Alhambra in 1820. He lived with gypsies, vagrants, and hippies. He swam in the pools by moonlight, listened to folklore, daydreamed about princes and princesses, bath houses, and the soap opera of court life. Not only did he imagine and dream about the romantic stories surrounding the rooms, but he also learned the real functions of each room, lending a historical integrity and love of history to his narration. An audio tour rivaling Alcatraz (which is narrated by inmates and former prison guards--so cool).

The intricate plasterwork was once painted. In some places only the blue is left. In some more protected areas you can even see red and green pigment still lingering. The effect is still gorgeous but the remnants make you imagine the extravegance and brilliance these walls must have expressed.

This blog entry is seriously disorganized--but how would you know if I didn't tell you? Haha! My internet connection has been a royal pain lately and so all of my blog writing sessions have been spontaneous and disjointed. I apologize for any confusion. Anyway... this is a courtyard from the Generalife summer home. The summer home is so much more comfortable and easier to imagine living in than the palace. With the gardens spreading from within the courtyards and a much simpler design, the place feels much more homey. Though I suppose with some lush tapestries, concubines, and piles of pillows everywhere they were probably both rather comfortable and lavish.

The bell tower was used throughout the centuries to signal triumphs, defeats, and the passage of time. We visited the Alhambra on the Dia de la Toma, the day Isabel de Catolica and the Reyes Catolica (Catholic monarchs) took back Granada from the Moors (January 2, 1492). Visitors were allowed to ring the bell all day--the tolls filtered through the mist into the night. I was a goon and forgot to look at the camera as I rang the historic bell. Typical.

The Alhambra sees close to 6,000 visitors per day. Hotels, shops, and a post office support the crowds. This lion is hungry for postcards!

Alhambra cats: Granada is crawling with stray dogs and cats.

Hand rail with water flowing through. Part of a series in a walkway of water in the Generalife. The tinkling of the water is very relaxing.

Renaissance palace built by Carlos V, Holy Roman Emperor. He loved the Alhambra and often vacationed here. Eventually he decided to make his own accomodations to be more comfortable. It's a square building with a circular interior with incredible accoustics.

Foundations of the barrio for the soldiers and servants. The rooms look so tiny. Again, I say, people must have been smaller back then. Most rooms are not large enough even for me to lie down in let alone allow for a family or any number of soldiers enough to serve for an entire army, though I imagine that the structures were at least two stories.

Amazing wooden ceilings in the more modern rooms.

The repetitive designs are often passages from the Koran. In Muslim art human representation is forbidden so the artwork is all geometric and derivative of nature. Repetition creates incredible combinations of shapes caused by both positive and negative space. Breath taking.

Views of the Alhambra from the Albaycin

Here you can see the walls and the colossal palace of Carlos V.

The streets of the Albaycin are very narrow. This is Molly perched on the short retaining wall so that she doesn't get run over by this truck. The walk up into the Albaycin is very steep and quaint.

Happy hippy perch.

Hippies and their dog. It was really interesting to see all the hippies. They had really fancy shoes and tattered clothes. Many of them live in the caves just outside the city. They survive by selling handmade jewelry and by conning tourists or playing music. It reminded me a lot of Evergreen College in WA.

My girls.

The raspy Tom Waits-y voice of this flamenco singer was incredibly sexy.

The Alhambra with the Sierra Nevadas looming above.