"She was not so beautiful in real life," said the museum guide at El Prado. "In fact, she was so ugly, it is no wonder that the sculptor even threw a veil over her face..."
We were standing in front of Isabel II's delicate, ivory bust.
I laughed out loud. Michael had already warned me that, with Isabel Segunda, I had picked a bad subject to interpret as evocative of the softness of a girl, softness of a woman.
"She was horrible!" Papi exclaimed.
"A horrible human being, you mean?" I asked, not surprised at all by this revelation.
"Yes, in addition to being ugly. She killed many people."
"What monarch didn't, or wasn't horrible?" I said. "Monarchy aside, was there ever a rich fuck in all of history who wasn't an abominable human being?"
We had walked a long time inside the Prado before reaching the veiled queen. We had already seen Las Meninas, and I had whispered to Papi as we walked past several portraits of royals, "Think of the irony. All of this great art, immortalizing these despicable, rich assholes..."
I made sure nobody but Papi could hear me. (I have better manners than that, you know!). We lingered quietly in the expected places. Las Meninas. (A Renaissance Selfie?). Michael taught me this painting while I was in undergrad, and he said that the joke of the painting is that the painter, Diego Velasquez, makes himself the central, most prominent human being in the scene. The monarchs are relegated to mere hazy reflections within a mirror on the wall. Velasquez stares out from his painting and seems to make eye contact with the viewer (us!). As if he knows we know. Know, I guess, that he was the one who mattered. I embrace this notion with enthusiasm. Fuck the monarchs.
So the truth is that queen Isabel II was not beautiful. But Torreggiani's sculpture of her is beautiful. Now I have seen it with my own eyes. That bust is heavy with softness and unveiled with loveliness and femininity. No questioning the gender of that face. No questioning its beauty. Would Torreggiani have dared do otherwise? It was his job to imbue his sculpture with the true softness of a woman, and to gift it with grace and with sensuality. If you make a sculpture of the queen, for the queen, that's what you do. That's simply what you do.
And if the queen bids you to sleep with her, you sleep with her, whether or not she be an ugly witch. You pray a little, maybe. Perhaps to the Viagra Gods. Poor men of Isabel II's court! I am not good with history, but I'm guessing there were poor equivalents to Viagra in the nineteenth century. And assuming that there were, that there was some potent little herb or vegetable growing innocently and nonchalantly in the royal garden -- well, there is no escaping that if queen Isabel II was as ugly and as nasty as historicized, then the myriad men she took to bed were sadly in no position to refuse her unbearable demands. They called Isabel II "the nymphomaniac queen."
How utterly dreadful for everyone involved.
After the Prado, Papi wanted badly to see the Guernica, so we headed out to the Museo Reina Sofía the following afternoon. We did not have a hard time finding it. We had wandered Madrid in circles looking for Museo El Prado on Thursday morning. But the rain of yesterday coaxed us into the Metro, and the Metro took us straight to the Reina Sofía. We do not usually avoid rain. In true Floridian spirit, Michael and I never carry umbrellas. We'll wear a light drizzle like a halo until we can't stop shivering; we'll dash through a downpour; we'll "wait out" a bad storm. The rain is our tempestuous lover. We love it, put up with it, and can never get mad at it.
The Metro saved us from the rain but taught me a new type of discomfort: that of being sandwiched in a subway (pun intended!). I've never been to New York and truly did not know this: people really do cram themselves in until the train is so full that everyone can feel the curve of somebody else's hip bone, wristbone, elbow. Gaze aversions and body heat ensue. It's beautiful, really -- all these strangers going to different places, brought together for one hot, exhaustive moment. (Yes, it's fatiguing). A young, dark-eyed mother managed to squeeze an entire baby carriage into the subway. Her baby had a headful of black curls and inquisitive eyes. He stared up at me and grabbed the colorful owl keychain dangling from my purse with one impressively capable tiny arm. He was too little to try to eat the brass owl, so neither mom nor I tried to stop him from playing with it. Mom looked sad. Like she had been crying, even. Mom and baby got off on the very next stop and baby waved goodbye to me while she wheeled him away.
Yesterday was all about seeing the Guernica. This Picasso painting is considered so important that two museum workers sit on either side of it at all times. They warn museum guests not to take any pictures. The Guernica exhibition room also contains pictures of the masterpiece in progress. Paintings in progress fascinate me because I don't possess a modicum of artistic talent. I don't understand the progression from lines and shadows to objects, bodies, scenes, and landscapes. The work of painters simply amazes me. I have no idea how they see what they see.
Some young American kids (I'm guessing college age) were doing some kind of street art in front of the museum. Bless their hearts. To me, they were cute. A slender young boy in a mustard yellow polo and thick glasses was preaching from the top of his lungs, in English:
"The only way to preserve beauty is to get rid of all authorship! ... I must act as if I found the work of art... I did not create it... I found it.... therefore, I do not have to answer for it...!"
Nobody from the museum stepped outside to escort these kids away. The museum goers smiled patiently and quietly acknowledged the performance. We snapped a picture. Then we walked away.
In the evening, we found our first truly local restaurant. This was a small triumph! In all of the places we had dined in before yesterday, we had found ourselves surrounded by tourists. Yesterday, our exhaustion persuaded us to seek a cerveza from the pub right next to our hotel. And who would have guessed it! Nobody but locals inside. Sweet. We've found lots of friendly people in Madrid. But we've also found one of the surliest-looking waiters I have ever encountered in my life. The waiter in the cervecería we found in front of the Reino Sofia Museum looked so unbelievably angry that I became concerned for his blood pressure. From the immediate glares that he gave us, I began to suspect that he hated Americans. But as it turned out, he also hated his coworkers, and everyone in the restaurant seemed to hate this scowling man back. The food was very good. The waiter's misery was painful to witness. I was proud of Michael for not "going Harrawood" on him; for not sending back the four pounds of croquetas he slammed down in front of us that we most certainly had not ordered. I suggested that we give them to a homeless person. After all, they were really good croquetas.
Our dinner at the bar by our hotel was a far cry from that ugly experience, and it has been our sweetest to date. A slightly grumpy middle-aged man mumbled something not so flattering about Americans when we sat next to him at the bar and I started snapping selfies. Everyone else was more than welcoming. We ate -- get this -- croquetas de morcilla! (Blood sausage croquetas). We chatted with the two bartenders for a long time. They were jovial, kind, and humble. They praised Michael's Italian-influenced Spanish and helped him correct his mistakes. Everyone in Spain keeps telling Michael he is doing great with Spanish. (My love, it is true!) As for me -- it shocks me to keep getting mistaken for an American. People hear the English, I suppose, and just assume. Soy Salvadoreña, I keep having to insist so that people will speak Spanish to me. A female museum guide asked me the other day if I had understood what she had said. "Every word," I replied, but did not go on to explain that the Spanish of Central America is identical -- truly identical -- to the Spanish spoken in Spain. The only difference is that we don't speak Spanish with a lisp -- haha! -- and of course, every culture has its own idioms.
7:59 am. Michael is sleeping in the bedroom but I will wake him soon for coffee. These mini Juan Bravo apartments are great. One last note, however. My friend Karen says that one must "fight for everything" in Paris. Well, I can now say that one must fight for everything in Madrid. If you're feeling chilly in your hotel room, go down to the concierge and put in a request for extra blankets -- hmm, no, don't expect to ever get them. Go buy yourself a blanket from a flea market instead. Unless, of course, you happen to be Michael Harrawood. Just this morning, he may have "gone Harrawood" on the concierge. To make a long story short, we have our blankets now.
Madrid has been uncharacteristically cold since we arrived here -- the weather right now reminds me of spring time in San Francisco. There is no heat here. No phone. But it's okay with us. We adapt.
One more thing I have learned so far: not to ask Madrid locals for directions! They are kind and desire to be helpful, so they will try to tell you exactly where to go, but later, much later, you will realize they never knew the real answer to your question.
Remember, though -- these are my first impressions after only three days of being here. Any, or all of them, could be wrong.
And here's my loving, precocious verdict --
How do you not love Madrid?
6/9/18
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