"He was his own work of art,..."

"...just as an out and out dandy should be," the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya describes Ismael Smith as a person.

"Literary Figure" a sculpture by Ismael Smith.
It's a picture of him that got me to the exhibit.

Sept 6, Wednesday, Day 2

After spending, I swear to God, FOUR hours researching and writing my blog entry Tuesday evening I decide Wednesday is going to be a beach day. The less I do, the less I have to talk about, plus walking in new Birkenstocks all day has earned me some lounge time. The beach it is!

I check the weather- 60% thunderstorms. Pooooooop. Poop. I scroll around on my phone before bed and find a temporary exhibition I actually care about. Not that I don't care about art, but rarely do i see a write-up and single picture from an unknown (to me) artist and think, “YES! Absolutely.” So, yay, I have something exciting to do tomorrow.

"Hey, Bianca, you mentioned bed a second ago? How are you sleeping?” you wonder.

That’s so thoughtful of you to ask. Not well. It’s disappointing because my first night I slept like a sloth. Last night I was so tired I took half a sleeping pill only to insure I’d stay asleep. I woke up two hours later. I took the other half a pill. Nope. My jet lag is stronger than sleeping pills! Cool/not cool.

Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya

After another great breakfast with Paula, (She fresh-squeezes my OJ. I saw the juicer! I knew it was good, but fresh-squeezed?? I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve this, but THANK YOU UNIVERSE.) I’m off to the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya (Catalan Art Museum) for an exhibition of Ismael Smith’s work entitled “The Beauty and the Monsters”.

I arrive the instant the museum opens dripping with sweat because, pre-rain, its 80 degrees and 80% humidity. Good God. I go straight to the exhibit and commune with Mr. Smith, one on one. I don’t remember any other time in my life that I’ve been the only person in a wing of a museum. It’s wonderfully quiet.

Me & Mr. Smith

Ismael Smith (1886-1972) was a sculptor, illustrator, and engraver who never got as famous as he wanted to be. He was basically too different (“disturbing”, “satirical”, “horrific” are used to describe his work) to be accepted by the conservative and placid style of the time. He quit art to devote himself to his obsession with finding a cure for cancer and "nudism". Following a complaint from his neighbors about his public nudity, Smith was committed against his will to an insane asylum outside New York. He stayed at Bloomingdale Insane Asylum until he died. 

I love Mr. Smith. His work is soulful, snide, heartbreaking, comical. It’s a hell of a collection. As I read every placard and take too many pictures, I imagine how pleased his spirit is to know he finally got his due.

When I mention to Paula that I plan to come to the museum, she tells me they’ve got the best collection of Romanesque art in Europe. I cruise the wing, and it’s cool but I don’t connect to it. Religious art does nothing for me. Until…!

PEELING Jesus' skin from his body???
("Calvari" by Jaume Huguet)

I make my way through the Gothic wing and it’s Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Mary, Jesus, until somewhere along the way I discover I’m lost in a picture of the Archangel Michael killing some demon (turns out that’s Satan, oops). The demon is riveting! After that, I play Where’s Waldo looking for “evil" in every painting- anything from a winged serpent to a particularly wicked expression on someone’s face- and I find it! It’s a fun game.

The rest of the collection is Modern and, not for the first time, I’m floored by sculpture. It’s marble. But it’s moving. And it’s making me cry. Man!! SO GOOD.

I wring the museum dry as far as enjoying everything it has to offer, and cap my visit off with a trip to the roof. It’s a beautiful view of the city and the approaching rain. What’s cool is, museum admission is good for 2 visits in 30 days, so I can go and hang out with Mr. Smith again, or I can give my visit to Stella when she gets here. 

Rooftop selfies: Squinty, Smiley, & Self-Conscious

While I’m in the area, I check out CaixaForum Social and Cultural Center, a factory-turned-police-station-turned-Art-Nouveau-building (another one?? Dumb joke.) that currently houses an Andy Warhol exhibit and another Modern Surrealist Blah Blah Artman exhibit. I'm arted out. I leave after getting lost three or four times in the facility. 

I want tapas. I’m dying for them. Lunch doesn’t really get going until 2p, so I wander from the Montjuic area to the Barri Gótic, where Rick Steves has written up Carrer de la Mercé for its collection of local tapas bars. I’m struck with how quiet the city is as I stroll. It’s like a zombie apocalypse, except for maintenance workers doing some upkeep. No people exist (except maintenance) and every store front is gated shut. It’s more curious than unsettling. I can only imagine how wild everything must get after dark for people/places to still be asleep flirting with 2pm.

Chorizo al diablo!!

I get to Tasca del Corral at the stroke of 2:05 and order chorizo al diablo, because I love chorizo and demons. I put absolutely no thought into what I was ordering beyond that, and I expected nothing more than spicy sausage. When Salvador, the bartender, put a bowl of chorizo IN FLAMES on my table I squeak in delight. Fire! I love fire! Salvador’s Spanish is better and faster than mine, but I understand that unless I want my chorizo burnt to a crisp, I need to stir it around. The more I stir the chorizo, the more fat melts off, the bigger the flames get! Every lunch needs to be this fun! The fire eventually burns itself out.

Half an hour later I’m still trying to finish my chorizo and manchego cheese. I love salt, but I start to feel like beef jerky. I force my lips open one last time and accept defeat. I'm bested by chorizo al diablo. I'm bested by the best. 

Before I can leave, Salvador, hauls down one of the jamón legs that I truly thought were plastic fakes hanging from the ceiling. He slices off a piece of jamón ibérico so I can try it. The jamón, like Salvador, is gorgeous and amazing.

Full and cured from pork and cheese, I listen to my body and buy a salad on my way home. It’s not too sexy, but neither is how bloated I am. 

"Designs for decoration of interiors" by Ismael Smith, 1913 (I think that means this was a wallpaper prototype!?!!!!!)

"Illustration for the cover of the tale Cabeza de Pato (Duckhead!)" by Ismael Smith, 1917

"The Dandy" (I made that up bc I forgot to get the info), "Ashtray" and "Male Rings", by Ismael Smith, 1906-1910

"Dancers", "Study of a Dancing Woman", "Under the Rain" and "The Tempest" by Ismael Smith, 1904-1910

"Life" by Ismael Smith, 1924

"Mask", "Mask" and "Mask" by Ismael Smith, 1961-1962: made as art therapy at The Bloomingdales Insane Asylum.
He stopped after these works and died eleven years later.

"Pursuing the Dream" by Michael Blay, 1902: the other side of this statue reveals the man is a sculptor 

"The First Cold" by Michael Blay, 1892 (I have tissues if you need them.)

Can you make it out? "The First Cold" was first exhibited here in 1934. Seeing pictures of this statue's life
decades before today made my heart ache. They've been longing for heat for a long time.

Inside the dome of the Palau Nacional (which houses the museum), you see this amazingness.
There's crucifixion, there's angels, it's the whole enchilada.

The city as art gallery: Neighboring garage doors sporting a hell of a graffiti story

The city as art gallery: Skatepark at Parc de les tres Xemeneies (I think) wears this gorgeousness

Salvador cuts me off a piece of that

Mid-wander, too short to be IN Barcelona so I'm under it