I'm recollecting this a few days later, on the train from Seville to Málaga. I've been so busy experiencing Spain I haven't been able to record it!
1) My last full day in Madrid, already half booked with my afternoon entry to the Prado's permanent collection. I decided to spend a couple hours beforehand rambling through nearby Buen Retiro Park, a significant and beautiful feature of Madrid life.
2) In Barcelona I had my unexpected Day of the Whippet, with something like five sightings of whippets here and there. In Madrid I had the unexpected Day of Parent/Child interactions. Walking down Gran' Via from my hotel to the park, I witnessed a sullen 11-year-old Japanese boy break away from his parents, and his mother's stern rebuke when she caught his arm. (As mentioned before, one hears all languages throughout Spain.) About halfway through the park I observed a family group relaxing under a tree, but the littlest boy standing facing the tree trunk while his father was expressing some sort of disapproval in a cascade of Spanish. Finally, on my way out of the park, I saw a young tween girl, rail thin with arms stiff at her sides, her extreme thinness accentuated by her long straight black hair parted down the middle almost to her waist, beginning to cry as she was saying something to her father, probably why she was crying over whatever had happened. He approached her slowly to hug her as I passed on; one doesn't spectate over such things.
3) The park, where I entered, included two long rows of statues of rulers of Spain -- what the Germans would call a Puppenallee. Very few women, but some of the kings carried shields emblazoned with female profiles. They were certainly not put up in chronological order, most confusing.
4) I walked on and heard music in the air. Unsure what it was — a recorder? — I only knew it was perfect for that time and place. Approaching an ornamental lake, I could at last see the musician: a Man Older Than I playing a harp, producing sounds like spindles of antique light. He was not playing "My Heart Will Go On," so I tipped him — and lingered under a tree no little time his playing charmed me so much.
4a) Change in Spain is something you have none of when you need or sackfuls that weigh you down and make you jingle temptingly to scam artists and street people. Contributing smaller-size change in reasonable quantities to street musicians helps to ease the pressure.
Lucifer!
5) Buen Retiro is so beautifully maintained, all its formal gardens, water features, dog park, fountains, and its many shady paths. I was surprised to realize that one of the fountains depicted the fall of Lucifer! Gurrrrllll . . . he didn't fall in the water. On the other hand, it's far to hot in Madrid to have a Lucifer bonfire park feature.
The rose garden was like being in a Beatrix Potter book somehow.
6) There was also an enchanting and lavish rose garden from which the heat of the day had not yet robbed its delicate scent. I loved getting to walk there, but my goodness, it was like the Anvil of the Sun at that hour, not long after noon.
7) Leaving the park and retracing my steps brought me to my next planned destination: the espadrille store, conveniently across the avenue from the Prado. The nice young saleswoman started showing me rather severe numbers in navy blue and natural cotton, but when I asked if they had rainbow in size 46 (my big boats take a 46 on the European scale), things improved. "Colores!" I left the shop with a pair of rainbow and a pair of bright red espadrilles -- perfect for shipboard.
7a) "Buy them tight because they stretch out," she told me, so I did. But oof, my tiniest toes have taken a beating on this trip, even though I bandage them daily.
Could you do this?
8) Et finalmente, the Prado! The first artwork I saw, in the entry foyer -- and the only one I could photograph, because of their no photography rule -- was a statue of Charles V stark naked dominating an allegory of Fury. (More info here.) Or something like that. And I thought, "How many world leaders today would have the chutzpah to do that?" Meaning appear stark naked in public art, not dominate fury.
9) The restroom was in the basement, so I decided to begin there. "I'm going to see it all," I said to myself, "so it doesn't matter where I start." How wrong I was! Four or five hours later I was plodding and almost babbling senselessly through the Prado saying things like "Oh, I almost missed the Titians," before shambling into yet another set of galleries. And I certainly didn't get to appreciate some of the Goyas as much as I should have. I could easily have been suffering from the Stendhal Syndrome!
9a) So the moral of the story is, start with the art you want to see most, because you have no idea — no idea — what sort of toll a museum will take on you. Especially at the Prado.
10) But . . . the galleries where I started included many of the paintings I had just been reading about the night before in The Guide to the Prado! That definitely started me off on the right track.
11) In one of the first rooms I visited there was a particularly lavish and finely-detailed series on the Martyrdom of St. Stephen by Juan de Juanes. He used the same models in the progression of the story, and I noticed especially the rage of his tormentors in the last pair of paintings. They made me think of the current political moment.
12) At this remove, the rest of the Prado passed before me in a blur — a beautiful blur created by masters and I am so grateful — but some little moments stand out. Familiar faces popped out at me from some paintings. I swear Glenn Close and Dame Edith Evans were represented on the Prado's walls, as well as a friend, now in another city, who could have posed as a farmer in a large painting by Goya.
13) And I saw Las Meninas, the greatest work of the greatest artist (Velázquez) in arguably the greatest museum. It's exhibited at one end of a very large oval room that is full of large Velázquez paintings -- mostly equestrian portraits of homely Hapsburgs. Like the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, it’s hung in a large room so that as many people as possible can see it. Unlike the Mona Lisa, the room was not jam-packed with viewers, but there were at least a couple dozen.
13a) Velázquez isn’t an artist I’ve paid much attention to, but now I have seen his greatest works. His Christ Crucified moved me much more than Las Meninas, but it’s very easy to see why the latter has fascinated so very many people over the centuries. So many items to connect, so many possible interpretations, so many hidden meanings!
14) As for Goya, my goodness, he got around much more than I thought! Obviously the Spanish Bourbons kept him busy — not always a very attractive family — but the breadth of his other work has such delicacy, vigor, and understanding of human emotions.
A victim of Stan Doll!
15) At 5:47 PM I shambled out of the Prado, grateful, but hurting from the coccyx down. Walking back to my hotel, I noticed again how many al fresco establishments had installed misting systems to keep their customers from drying out. One place even had fans just blowing mist over their tables.
16) The rest of the evening I spent on the rooftop of the hotel, by now my favorite spot in Madrid, understanding more and more why Spaniards keep the day going so long. The day is so ferociously hot, and the evening is so pleasant! It is no difficulty at all, after a bit of a siesta, to press on to midnight.
17) Tomorrow, en route to Seville!
