I do not seek perfection. I seek truth, beauty and permanence.

Oh, JOY! What day was this I had? From suns first until the gong of midnight, I sought, and found—only joy. Only love, only ache of the most welcome and glorious kind. THIS is romance.

In truth, Wolf started his day quite low. But, the best way to lay down a heavy heart is to pour it out. So pour I did. And pour and pour and pour. I expunged myself of that energy with passion and determination.

I still felt (and feel) like an ill person who is healing. Not quite myself, but so vastly superior to before that it defies description.

Thank you to the assistive soul. Who listened and was kind and hurt because I hurt. And was loving but frank and pulled me from my bent, where I landed realizing that passion need not control us. It is an engine that must be tamed, used to great power, but never left to run un-throttled.

GETTING IT ON

We finally stepped out of the house, midday, bound for Thyssen museum. Not ideal, but I wasn't worried. I knew we would have adventure regardless of the when or the where.

First stop: Correo! For post card stamps. More lines! The Spanish LOVE a good queue. In fact, I think that is a Europe thing. We are disappointed when the clerk admits they are out of stamps. We'll have to find a second.

Strolling down the main avenue, I spot a thrift store, modernizingly named 'Vintage'.

Inside, I find a most delectable coat. As winter drives in, I am in need of a warmer wrapper.

It is a delight; warm, stylish, a little snug (fitted). I have grown very fond of the cut and fit of most Spaniards. They look and no doubt feel beautiful. Green with wood buttons and an abundance of zippered pockets. This is important for an artist and writer to stick all his stuff.

Look out Indiana Jones, I think I'm going to out-adventure your look!

Newly packaged, we decided the rest of the day, we'd lose ourselves in the visages left by great artists. So it was:

TO THE THYSSEN-BORNEMISZA MUSEUM!

Bus-hopping has become second nature. And I am enjoying metro rides and buses here in Madrid. It's like a game to arrive without missing a window. And then there are the people. Genuine Spaniards living life. I stand out.

Some buses see tourists, though not many. I don't think I've seen any tourists on the Metro.

SIGHTS SEEING ME

We get a big picture window cruising down the grand avenue which is packed with people. In a place we were the day before, I see a street artist I intended to patronize the day before, with attention if nothing else. I take out my phone and take a few pictures, just to record her geolocation.

Weirdly, she stands up and blocks the view of her work. Then, shoots me the bird. It's odd and performative. Reaching down she holds up a sign that says:

ME HAN ROBADO, NECESITO DINERO URGENTEMENTE. (I've been robbed, I need money urgently.)

I get the desperation. But the reaction reads more like mental illness than desperation. I don't think I'll risk going back.

There is an accident and our bus changes routes. We jump off at the next stop and walk the quarter of a mile to the Museum.

HOW TO LOOK AT ART

Today is a great day to visit. It is hardly populated. In fact, I notice the city itself seems largely emptied of its pre holiday crowds. And I love it. I GREATLY prefer an empty museum to a packed one.

My most distracting experience in that regard was at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, where we saw a Magritte show. It was shoulder to shoulder—and not the way to see art.

Art requires the ability to take your time: step back, toe to the left and the right. See how the light penetrates some pigments but simply reflects off others.

And this modern and well-lit museum delivers. Plenty of room to roam and soak it in. And I drink for hours. Longed for favorites with Picasso and Degas, surprises from Okeefe and Remington. And so so many works by artists of little renown but amazing beauty.

THE TRAVELING EXHIBIT

Starting with Warhol/Pollock, it is an interesting experience. The curator is commenting on abstract versus figurative work. And I agree Warhol took figurative elements and pushed them until they are abstract.

His 'Oxidize' series is both appealing and off-putting. Warhol spilled body fluids on to canvas (sweat, urine and other undisclosed material) and let time do it's work. Weird but also kind of intriguing that he had the boldness to do it. The organic nature of it triggers my nose to run and on a second visit, puts in me into a fit of sneezing.

I read at the Banksy, 'The ultimate goal is to spend less time making the art than the public does looking at it.”

Warhol wins in this respect.

His shadow pieces manage to evoke a tear somehow. Something about they being empty places in his studio. And something about painting dozens of the same thing that is just vague shapes.

INTERMISSION

We break in the museum cafe. It is cold and we are tired. Worth the premium. I have a cream cheese croissant and water while my partner has a lintel soup.

I want wine, but I do not want wine. The evening prior saw me drink an entire bottle of brut and I do not want nor need the emotional or physical cost of more of the fruit of the vine today.

Post meal I do some drawing while she chats at me. Eventually, I am so tired I nod off. A welcome respite for 10 minutes. Until my slipping elbow knocks the plate to the floor.

TWENTIETH CENTURY MASTERS

We spend the next 3 hours discovering and rediscovering masterworks. There really is nothing as enriching a a museum. Maybe a library. But a museum takes less work! I love it. I want to spend every day here. I am just a tad envious of those who work at a place like this.

To spend all your time with these ghosts of delight. What stories they must tell the gallery attendants while they stand fast on their station. No doubt the reality is far less romantic.

Picasso mesmerizes me. I can see the craft and the care in what, upon first glance, looks like an effortless, childlike render. But there is so much tenderness and terror in his work. I especially love his rendition of women. The way the strips away artificialty, but we still see her beauty.

On my mind is the fears the women in my life have over getting older. And I imagine that though Picasso was a notorious womanizer, he was really quite tender in saying, 'hey, quiet your fears, let me show you your beauty apart from the standard you've been trained to expect. Be phenomenal in the beauty of your heart. of the parts that make you. The eye, the ear, the breast, the hand, wrist... that quiet source of life, the way the arm meets the breast. No, the physical beauty of youth is wonderful, but there is equal or surpassing beauty in an aging form.

I am smitten by so many works. My phone is filling up with photos I will forget. But, two pieces have moved into the lexicon of my memory:

1. Swaying Dancers – Edgar Degas
2. Woman with a Parasol in a Garden – Pierre-Auguste Renoir

The first because I have always loved Degas. If I imagined myself as Jack on the largest ship in the world, a vagabond artist drifting through the streets of Paris drawing prostitutes and strangers, then I was FIRST in love with the idea of being Edgar Degas.

His pastels and his dancers are simply fantastic.

When I look up at the modest sized, but incredibly delicate Swaying Dancers, I start to weep.

It—it reminds me of her. My dancer and muse. It recalls the gift I gave her I do not know how many decades ago. A poorer duplicate of a similar masterpiece.

My first medium and love is pastels. Nothing dries... it is vibrant the instant you press to paper. I love the dust, the smell and the drawing-like finish a painting has. To me, there is no greater master than Edgar Degas.

And this piece is fantastic. Delicate and expressive. Pastel artists must have good draftsmanship skills, and Degas has otherworldly ability to capture anatomy and pose.

The painting is such a surprise after so many Picassoes, Pollocks, Kirchers, Groszs. The dancer is mid pose and her tutu is like gossamer with magenta beading. The background figures all have stories of their own and the colors talk to me. They say, 'we've been waiting, Wolf, and so glad you've finally found us.'

I can't look away.

One of the BEST parts of the museum is the real color you see. Not reproduced or managed. the same vibrancy, or muting that the artist intended. Or at least tried to. Their voice straight into your heart without mediator. Degas painting sing when you see them in real life. Reproductions just don't do them justice.

This one is an aria.

I stay a long time with the piece. And a few others by Degas.

The second work I find that blows me away is Pierre-Auguste Renoir's Woman with a Parasol in a Garden. The initial hook is the color and texture. What shocks me is how similar it is to Path Leading Through Tall Grasses that hangs in the Musee d'Orsey. I check to be sure I am not crazy and find that Parasol and Tall Grasses are very similar. It is very self-satisfying to make this identity.

I feel smart.

But, though I would love to be the kind of patron that gets to spend all night with these unique experiences, 7pm comes fast and with only 15m left, I am sad that it is time to go.

My stomach does not have the same desire to stay with the masterpieces.

And so, go we do. Suiting up in our winter gear, we head out into the evening looking for what I describe as 'Spaghetti an' meatballs!'

There are several Italian places close to the museum, but as we've been living in the Latin neighborhood for the last month, I have come to sort of resist the tourist areas for meals. They are more expensive, crowded and usually not better by any measure.

DINNER TIME

Thanks to a very clever AI, I learn there is a place about a 20m bus ride away called 'My Pasta, My Art'. And so away we fly.

It is in a new part of the city. One we haven't traversed. A little further way in a new direction. I am immediately drawn. It has the population load of the Latin quarter but the old world charm of the most popular part of the city. In short, the best of both worlds.

It seems we have discovered the Bohemian part of Madrid. Shot full of artists, galleries and music halls. It is wonderful. Every few buildings is some new creative energy. I realize: I have found where I need to explore next before we leave next week!

We spot 'My Pasta My Art', but are immediately drawn to a small bookstore with black cat. We cannot resist bookstores, and cute bookstores are just mandatory. This one, whose name escapes me, appears like a glowing white gem in the night with it's huge window showcasing books in the lower half, and giving an inviting view of the shop.

Stepping in, my eye goes to a small basket of old books. At top is a pulp fiction novel by Erskine Caldwell 'A Swell-Looking Girl'. I see it was originally published in 1931 and this is a reprint from 1950. The cover has a demure-looking blond girl with red lips and a power blue peasant dress. It is the kind of book that immediatly pulls me in. The cover illustration is heavy with shadow leaving plenty of negaive space for the ample text.

Since we are in Spain, I decide to purchase a small copy of Spanish poetry. It is good to practice my Spanish and will be a good opportunity to see how another culture thinks by translating them line by line.

The latest find is a 7th printing of Heinlein's 'Stranger in a Strange Land'. I read the opening paragraph:

Once upon a time there was a Martian named Valentine Michael Smith.

Yes. Please.

Since the store is buy two get one free, I am out the door for a paltry 11 euros. That is until my lovely finds the postcards, and I find the stickers and magnets. So much for 11 euros. We leave 55 euros lighter. But a pocket full of books and swag. No one is complaining.

Stepping into My Pasta, My Art, it has charm. Warm and tiny. Tiny is normal for Madrid. But this is the right balance of squeezing us in. We settle at a high top table and start gawking at the decor. It's clearly swinging for the Roman fences. And winning. Rich detail without being gaudy. Plenty of mirrors in the right places to make the space feel bigger than it is.

I note that the place is FULL of attractive you college age women. Dress is varying levels of casual dressy. One young woman catches my eye when she struts up to her table across the aisle and peels her coat off to a comply nude back. She is wearing a tube top very well. Her skin is even and smooth, unblemished with age or too much sun damage. Muscled and soft in the right balance. Her long dirty blond hair alternately hang over her right, then left shoulder to the front, then when the 6' 2' swarthy server comes, it is tossed back to swirl across the landscape of skin.

I see beauty in women of any age. But it is hard to deny the incredible power of the very young. How we all long for those bodies we had those many years ago. But I remind myself, that the costs that gave us the form we have in middle age also pay the dividend of wisdom and experience.

It is the paradox of this life to want both our youth and beauty but also the wisdom and massive heart that come with experience and age.

The staff here is outstanding. They feel fun and friendly and genuine. It is so refreshing to have this level of engagement. It reminds me that at one time people called this the hospitality business. Now they just call it job.

The meal is beyond excellent. Tremendous, even. I want wine. But since I've already been too loose with the vino, having drunk a full bottle of brut the night before, I opt for modesty. My body thanks me.

We linger and chat and I draw. The waitstaff is always complimentary of my draftsmanship. It is fast and sloppy, drawn in pen, the way I like it. Not perfect, but done. I always suspect they are just fishing for a nice tip. But I think about dancing in front of others. No one past puberty has anything but the utmost respect for those who perform in public. It is entertaining even when it is not very good.

I know what I am. But I also spent the day looking at drawings by my predecessors and know that you don't get in a place like the Thyssen by sitting still. Do the work, good bad or otherwise, it compounds and one day a magnum opus is complete and everyone thinks you just materialize as successful.

As we wrap with coffee and shared tiramisu, we realize it's time to make the trek home. My wife is in rare form tonight, never suggesting either taxi or uber, preferring instead to wander the streets until we find a metro or bus terminal.

Now that we are through the major holidays, the streets at night have that romantic quality I recall from Porto just a few weeks back. Damp cobblestones, neon signs and small clusters of comrades drinking coffees or beer. The mass of people that are ubiquitous further south are absent, having spent their holiday buying a million things.

Feeling amorous, I pull my partner in close and hold her hand. Stealing a kiss makes her laugh.

'What's gotten into you.' she giggles and nudges me away.

My affection isn't play, it's real desire. But we're on different levels tonight, so I redirect it to energy for kindness and head to the bus terminal down the street. Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is just being there with someone. Her love language is quality time. So tonight, this is how I honor her.

I wrap my scarf a little snugger against my face. It's a protection against the cold and the rebuff.

The day has not been perfect in the sense that there were no flaws. We started late, sometimes got aggravated with each other, ran out of time, got cold... etc. clunkiness of being human beings. But in the sense that it was exactly I needed: perfect.

The absolute hilight was the emotional gift Degas gave me. It is a moment I will carry with me for a long time, if not all my days. Deep moments with art stick with you in an indelible way. A stain on the soul of the very best kind.

#travel #essay #madrid #europe #art

You cannot deny reality indefinitely.

Some dreams—they are warm and squishy, the kind that you want to stay wrapped in forever. Others are elaborate concoctions.

Then there are dreams drifting in with hard truth that we didn’t realize needed telling—or maybe didn’t want to hear. Coming the way truth often does in midlife—plain, rarely apologetic.

Bombs in brown paper wrapping.

Tonight two dreams shape a heavy, unseen onus. In the first, I am walking in Spain with my wife and a longtime friend who has always required special attention and handling. It is an ordinary walk, the kind where you don’t see most of what you look at and instead proceed not with details, but impressions, the rhythm of the place.

On the road in this ether-vision, my beloved is angry with me. The mere suggestion that our friend will get wet sends my wife into a verbal assault insisting I go back and get an umbrella.

I cannot see the rain but can def hear the instruction.

Spain is, so many things. It is escape. It is reset. It is romance. Adventure, experience, expansion, suffering. But it is also existence, life that has to be lived. Cobblestones and movement—presence, but not yet boredom. Art needs boredom.

But before routine can introduce it, there is the distracting weight of being somewhere new. Simple things suddenly become challenging. Bus numbers, where is a train platform, how do you turn up the heat? Small things that gobble up time and brian waves.

In the dream, it is not rest. I am in motion, and doing the thing I came to Iberia for: to explore, to extract, to sup, to see, not the bricks or the cobbles, but the mortar between them and understand why it holds fast the way it does. Why does it have it's color. It's texture. The small things in life are the true treasures. Spain and Portugal have these in abundance and I am here to hold them and let them become part of me.

But, in this dream, I am not allowed to drink in and get drunk on the experience of existence. My attention is pulled away and demanded to abandon the walk and instead engage in the maintenance of another.

The anger, I think, is more about my own self-implied need to victimize my existence in order to feel worthy and valued. For some reason, I only feel validated when I fade into the role of servant. Diminishing my own self and want. I define this as holiness, and feel a failure when I am not holy.

This is a strange duality: to be created with hunger and then feel guilt for wanting to eat.

The friend, too, is less herself than a placeholder. She stands in for the world’s endless, reasonable demands. Someone always needs something small and sensible, and I am very good at providing it. The dream does not accuse. It simply shows the pattern. I am walking through my own life, and my role is to leave the path in order to fetch protection for others.

I sense some quiet resentment. Not shouted anger, because it has learned that tack won’t be answered. Trudge ahead, I was born a mule, I will die a mule.

The second dream arrives like a response.

Sketchbook #66—titled Romancing Iberia—is nearly full.

There is no one else in this dream. No anger. No instructions. Just the knowledge of pages used, of attention given, of something finite approaching completion. A sketchbook is not a souvenir. It is evidence. It proves that I was not merely present in body, but awake. That I noticed light on stone, the pace of streets, the way a place reveals itself only when it is not rushed.

The number matters because it implies continuity. This is not a whim. Sixty-six sketchbooks suggest devotion, a long conversation with the act of seeing. And the title—Romancing Iberia—is not about possession. To romance a place is to court it, to listen, to allow it to change you without insisting it stay.

“Nearly full” carries both pride and ache. It means I did what I came to do. It also means this chapter has an edge. Something will end. The fear is not that it was meaningless, but that it was fleeting.

Placed side by side, the dreams speak to one another clearly.

In one, I am useful. In the other, I am alive.

One is about assigned care. The other is about chosen attention.

One pulls me outward, away from myself. The other gathers me inward and says: Look. This counted.

There is no rebellion in these dreams. No explosion. Just contrast. And perhaps that is the most honest form of clarity. My mind is not asking me to abandon responsibility. It is asking me not to forget the difference between service and erasure.

The sketchbook dream does not deny the umbrella dream. It answers it. It says: even here, even now, under obligation and compromise, something true is being filled. Page by page. Line by line. Not for approval. Not for utility. But because noticing is how I stay intact.

So the essay closes where the dream wants it to—at the back of the book, with bulletpoof ink staining my fingers and hands.

And though i am not truly there, this comes from the dream and so seems an apropos addition:

Sketchbook #67 — Closing Page I didn’t come to take you with me. I came to let you leave marks. Stone warmed palms. Lighted awe and wonder. The grammar of walking— the ways and alleys reveal themselves only to those who do not hurry, who slow and press. I loved without owning. I watched without asking to be seen. I sat where others passed and let the day find the shape of me. If I carry anything home, it is not the place, but the posture: Head up. Hands open. Attention given freely. I was not whole here. But I was present. And presence, it turns out, is enough to fill a book. — W

#dream #travel #madrid #iberia #romancingiberia