"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

"I'm so happy here... How do I make myself feel this in America?"

I say this to Stella in my happiest of happy places, besides an empty movie theater or under a tree: the subway. 

Selfie-happy after I found
my lost hat last week.
Not so much re: my scarf

Paul A Young hot chocolate #obsession

We get back to London in time for Thai noodle lunch at Churchill Arms. (Thaiordie!) I make one last run into Central London to try and track down my favorite scarf that I lost on Fast & Furious Day. It's gone forever, so I grab a hot chocolate that I'm obsessed with (Paul A Young on Wardour St, don't miss it!) in consolation. Cashmere scarf tragedy notwithstanding, I feel great. Running around a city in the cold snap air charges me like those emergency room heart paddles. It feels like a great crush. I'm really going to miss London. 

Stella and I meet for Indian food at Dishoom in King's Cross. Family style, small plates, we order many, many, many dishes and do ourselves proud. We've elevated cleaning our plates from childhood compulsion to a skilled art. 

We have to say good-bye before she goes to bed because of her early work pick up. We agree my leaving is a stupid idea and hug. I love my best friend. 

Dishoom dinner. All the dishes wouldn't fi

Arriving at the airport early is becoming my thing, apparently. I've been killing so much time in airports lately, I don't even get bored anymore. A lentil and spinach pie, two pints of cider, and a tipsy candy raid of the airport store later, and my flight is ready to board. 

This bag is big enough to cover
both my knees.

My flight is relatively painless. I watch a few movies (ten minutes of American Women before I realize I want to watch it with my mom, 15 minutes of Passengers before I realize life is too short to watch a boring, insulting, misogynistic nightmare, The Girl on the Train, Why Him?, and the first half of Free Fire), misgauge my Ambien sleep window (hence all the movies), and finally drift off. 

I was going to do a list of things I've learned, like I sometimes do after a trip, but I've been pretty thorough in my writing. I did forget to mention the time I used the toilet in Harrod's and was so sweaty I blotted my face with toilet paper. When I exited the stall to wash my hands, my face was covered in a layer of toilet paper and I looked like a mummy. When you quickly try to roll toilet paper off your sticky face, it all ends up in your hair. What I learned: take your time when rolling wet TP off your face. 

Arriving in LA is bittersweet. It's not entirely home, but then when I fly to Austin in a few days that also isn't entirely home. Honestly, the last three weeks in Stella's flat, with my own space and my own schedule has felt like the closest thing to home that I've felt in months. It's no big deal, it's just the way life is playing out right now. 

Sometimes you have to admit, it's a beautiful world

One of the books I read in London was "Go Set a Watchman" by Harper Lee. It was a fascinating book to read right now, both with regard to the concept of home and what's happening in America. Basically, Jean Louise (Scout) is now in her mid 20s and returns home after living in New York to discover the home she understood doesn't exist anymore, not in her family, in her love, or in her town. 

This book takes place pre-Civil Rights, and the nationalism it portrays could be in any news story on any given day in the last year. Like Scout, every concept I had of home, be it personal, the country I thought I knew, my place in my family, has completely changed within the past year. The changes were traumatic because all growth is traumatic; but, if we don’t grow, we die.

Ready to cuddle with this mob

The book and my trip contextualized my state of mind. I logically and reasonably know through articles, therapy, logic, etc. that the last year (years? Decade?? Ugh, ok, all of life...) has been growing pain after growing pain however, I finally found my cathartic understanding through art and travel. In this moment, I’ve never felt more necessary as an artist and more thrilled to be a traveler. And that's nice.

Especially ready to hold this sour puss

I don’t know what comes next. This trip has been my finish line for the last five months, so I’m having a bit of the post-Christmas bummers. In a couple days, I’ll go back to Austin and curl up with our herd of cats and keep growing my voice and finding new experiences. 

Until my next trip... Thai or die! 

"I need to take off my pants and lie on this cold floor..."

...I say to Stella at dawn in the Madrid airport because I'm so tired that I'm nauseous and sweating. 

Bianca's dream home

Sunday: I have another chocolate breakfast. Dafne takes me and Stella on a walk to another nearby village while her parents and Luís pack up and close the house. 

Dafne is just like her parents in that she's a perfect guide, full of fascinating information about the area. She shows us the house I want to live in forever- it's built into the ground to look like a cresting wave of grass. One side and the roof is grass and the opposite side is all windows.  It's got gardens, a guest house and stables and a corral which means when I move in, I'll be able to have horses!

Dungeon door

Before we head to Madrid, Dafne shows us their dungeon. Their house is actually a mill from the 15th century and it still contains all the ancient hardware which extends down into the cellar. Of course, I fall in love with the dungeon. 

Inner dungeon

As we drive out of Sigüenza, we have to stop for the Easter procession as the town carries a resurrected Christ in reverence. No pictures, but I'm really happy we got to see the end of the story. 

The family drops Stella and me off at the Prado so we can squeeze in some art before we have to leave tomorrow. It's amazing, because world renowned art is, particularly Goya's Black Period and the Rubens. However, I don’t know if its because its Easter, but it seems like every other work of art is a crucifixion. Thank God Jesus had resurrection talents. 

Stella waits for me outside the Prado

I also notice a lot of torture and killing of women. I have an “Aha!” moment when I see maybe the fifteenth Adam & Eve representation, and I burst out to Stella, “That’s why men hate women! Because they blame us for everything bad because of Adam and Eve!” Stella’s reply was along the lines of, “Yeah. Duh…” I continue: “But I bet they made it all up because they were scared and jealous of what women could do with their bodies, so they had to minimize us to try and control us!” This earns another, “Yeah, duh.” type confirmation from Stella.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. Or why this finally hits home right now. I’m not a total moron, I’ve been a living female for over forty one years - and by the way, my dislike of writing my age in print makes me want to vomit, thanks society, thanks Patriarchy, and fuck you both - but lately I feel like I’m seeing the world for the first time. So I guess I’m woke…? Which is also a phrase that makes me want to puke, less because of the millennial-ness of it all and more because I’m privileged enough to have been sleeping in denial, complacency, and ignorance. Which reminds me, I haven’t had my Lexapro today. 

A breath-taking sculpture of
mother & child by Maria

All my wokeness, plus the holiday crowds and being exhausted means we leave the Prado early to walk back to Maria & Will's flat. The city is much busier than I thought it would be on Easter. I'd imagined Madrid would be completely shut down in recognition of the holiday, but I couldn't have been more wrong. Because they also observe Easter Monday, Easter Sunday in the city feels like a big party. 

We make it to Will & Maria's flat without getting lost once, and I fall in love. I love Maria's taste and their home is my dream. What's incredible about spending time with Will, Maria and Dafne is they are a family of artists. Not only actors and Director's, but artists. Art is their life and it's expressed in how they live their lives, as well. It feels like home to be in an environment that values the things I value most in my life: reading, discovery, expression, creativity, beauty, space. 

Finally, paella!

Maria has arranged a flamenco show for dinner so we take a quick tour around their neighborhood on the way to the restaurant. Stella and I linger before a closed shoe shop with windows full of beautiful espadrilles. Maria casually mentions that store makes the best espadrilles in the country and it’s too bad we fly out before they open tomorrow. Stella and I agree. If we didn't have a good reason to return to Madrid, we have the perfect one now. We love a good espadrille. 

Nefi & Nefi-colored nails

In two different spots on our way to dinner, I step into a plaza and it feels so familiar. Then I find a landmark and each time realize I stood in the exact spot 18 years ago on my first trip to Europe. My recall sucks, but it's nice to know Spain burned itself into my soul enough for my body to remember until my brain catches up. 

Nefi kisses. I win. 

Now, flamenco. I bow to flamenco. I saw it years ago, but I've never seen it like this. I take no pictures. Every step, every snap echoes in my synapses and jams my mind so I can't do anything but feel these dancers pound out their individual rhythms and ride the Spanish guitar. I insist you fly to Madrid and go to Las Carboneras to experience God for yourself. Until then, here's a YouTube video- especially after 1:45 watch and have your mind blown. 

Spain Starbucks ftw

Maria says the best time to experience flamenco is after the restaurants and shows close when all the musicians and dancers meet at an after hours bar to jam together. Right then, I promise myself that we really will be back and we’ll be there.

Nefi finally sleeps with me - and not only because I locked her in with me - and give me cuddles. We only get a few hours of sleep before we have to leave Will and Maria’s for the airport. Once we check in (again, WE ARE SO EARLY), the fatigue hits and I can’t wait to get London-home. 

Creek POV of the dungeon...

When I move to Spain, I definitely want a wall & door combo. They're my favorite. 

Stella strolls past Lady Art

I love her.

"That's not a thing!"

...Stella and I chorus to each other as we watch the latest episode of Girls together. God bless Elijah.

Barthelemy Togue's Purification 2012, in the 'Citizens' room of works used in political debates

Today is Tate Modern Day. But before I do that I hit the TKTS booth to see if I can score tickets for Les Mis. Sadly, they're not one of the shows listing last minute seats and I wonder if they ever have a show that isn't sold out. I walk from Leicester Square to the Tate Modern. I get lost for a bit and find myself in Trafalgar Square. I've been here before so I try to get my bearings until I see a giant thumbs up opposite the statue of King George IV. I have no idea what the hell a thumbs up is doing at what I consider to be somewhat serious-and-important sight. Not that I know, but it's big and in Europe so I'm assuming. 

Top pic: self conscious, bottom: real happy

I become a jerkoff and take a selfie in front of the thumbs up, hating myself, hating the selfie, hating my urge to make the picture snide. Then I find the placard that explains the statue's intent and I'm instantly humbled by the wish to make the world a more positive, optimistic place and I take a better picture. I don't even take multiples to try and make myself look better.

As I walk over the Golden Jubilee I take pictures of Britain's sights: Big Ben, Parliament, the Eye of London, and a proper posh Englishman complete with top hat and umbrella cane. The sun ruined his picture, but he could have been in a British museum he was so perfect. 

The Tate is extraordinary. The only thing I remember about my last visit is the huge sun installation which is gone now. The thing I'll likely remember most about this visit is how I came within a couple of inches of knocking down a city made of quinoa when I tripped over the safety boundary lines. Pictures of other highlights below. 

Who just leaves this out for me to almost ruin? Silly museum people, that's who.

On my way back across the river I decide I'm hungry but I don't feel like stopping for a big meal. I swing into an eatery chain called Eat and discover Broth Shots. £1 for a coffee cup of yummy broth on a chilly day? America get on this please. 

Golden Jubilee Bridge

I spend the afternoon looking for (and after getting lost a couple times, finally finding) a used bookstore I discovered online and watching Raw at Picturehouse (Love! Still!!!). I've been wanting to see both equally. I'm shopping for a book for my bus ride to Stonehenge tomorrow (Stephen King's It if I can find it), and I've been hearing about Raw for weeks. Both are good. 

Eye of London. They used to
call it the "eyesore"

I want to say more about Raw, but I heard so much about it before I saw it, I can't like it as much as it deserves. I suck at that. I've ruined many movies for myself by either reading too much about them, or listening to one hundred people tell me how much they liked it. I need to learn to wait a year to watch something so I can really enjoy it. I acknowledge Raw was well done, had a dynamic story, and intriguing relationships, and it was good, but... I already knew it would be good. Wait a year, forget what I've said, and then watch it and let it rock your world.

One thing that's not oversold is the Picturehouse. I took pictures this time! Soooo prettyyyy...

Picturehouse Central. See? I wasn't lying.

Look kids! Big Ben! Parliament!

Lorna Simpson, one of my new favorites artists

Cildo Meireles' Babel 2001

I forgot to get the name of the artist or piece,
but it has to do with digital something-something

This artist (not this lady) used spiders
to symbolize her mother

Mmm, also forgot to get the info on this...

This was human hair! It made
me nauseous, but was also cool

This made me eyes vibrate, as did the
other pieces in this optical illusion room

Another form of art: the Sweets Wall at Picturehouse Central!