Art (and climbing, duh)

Barcelona presents many opportunities for the art connoisseur. I’m not an art connoisseur, but I’m getting there and I can fake it pretty well, which as far as I can tell is half the part. I had a rough upbringing with art, in the sense that before I was ten years old I had effectively learned to sleep standing up in art museums, in plastic chairs at Shakespeare plays, and even in the presence of loud opera. I was an art atheist, and my parents were bent on making me a believer. I didn’t realize it then, but they were playing the long game. At sixteen I wasn’t subjected to as many Shakespeare plays and, fortunately, opera had been dropped, but I wasn’t allowed to be as uncultured as I wanted. On my first trip to Spain I was instructed by my mother to go to the Guggenheim museum in Bilbao, “go or don’t come home!” she said. Kevin was in college, so this threat carried extra weight for me. Well we went to the museum, so as far I know she was being facetious. Things change. A week ago it was a rest day and I had nothing to do, so I went to an art museum, the National Museum of Catalan Art (MNAC). I can see it now: my parents are jumping out of their seats, hands in the air, cheering, “we did it! We did it!” I guess they won.

Actually I can’t give my parents all the credit. I took an Art and Artists class this last semester that took me through the last steps on the path my parents started long ago. My professor, Eduard, was passionate. So passionate that had he spoken english we would have all thought he was crazy. Somehow spanish made the enthusiastic gesticulations and extended closed-eye monologues seem normal. I think the best professors not only transmit information, but impart passion. Eduard was a great professor. Throughout the class I’ve come to appreciate Pablo Picasso, criticize Salvador Dalí, relate with Antoni Tápies, and love Joan Miró.

I bring this up because over the course of the two hours I spent at the MNAC I came to the conclusion that Gothic and Renaissance art totally sucks. I divide it into two categories (no, not “boring” and “less-boring”): (1) Jesus and, (2) what-happens-if-you-don’t-believe-in-Jesus. I guess it makes sense in an illiterate culture. If you can’t read the bible at least you can understand pictures.

Believe in this...

Or this’ll happen...

Centuries of the same art. I can’t help but imagine what a Gothic artist would say if he saw a Miró painting, “Gah! Why doesn’t he just paint Jesus already!” These days I think I could give a decent explanation of why Miró had some great art, and maybe I could explain to the gothic guy why his art was terrible. Here’s some Miró I like...

 self-portrait

nocturno

And a Tápies

In climbing news I went to Margalef this last weekend, and over the course of two days I managed to get some nice climbs and a minor rib injury. I was climbing an easy 11d when a foothold broke and sent the weight of my falling body into a ledge at nipple-height. Saturday I felt ok after the impact, Sunday I was sore, and the soreness got worse until this Thursday. Today I feel better, but today is also the first day I’ve taken pain killers so who knows. Anyway, I nearly sent a 13a second go, but fell at the last hard move. No big climbs this weekend. On Sunday I got on a 12d despite my aching ribs. I didn’t want to do the climb but I realized that it would be my last chance for a while so I reluctantly tied in. My head wasn’t in it, I was tired, my body hurt, my technique was terrible, but somehow I still got halfway up before falling. I deserved to fall a lot sooner. It was an incredible climb, I’m not bummed that I fell, but I am bummed that I didn’t have it in me that day to give it a real go. It was a beautiful route and I think it would have been a great fight had I been in better shape. Regardless, I got some great photos. As always it was a great weekend, and with my time in Barcelona coming to an end I’ve come to realize how incredibly fortunate I am to have a group of supportive friends with which to share the weekends. I have another weekend left and hopefully I will see all my friends in Rodellar this summer, but I’ll miss the community I’ve become a part of and I’ll look forward to re-joining in a year. Barcelona, hasta pronto.

Tres Ponts Takedown, Siurana Smackdown

March has been a busy month. Last weekend Equipo Caracoles checked out a new area called Tres Ponts, and most recently we spent a weekend at the infamous Siurana. Equipo Caracoles is the name we’ve given ourselves, it literally means Team Snails. Appropriate, considering our habit for leaving late and enjoying luxurious and lengthy breakfasts before finally going climbing. Luckily the climbing is Spain is pretty punishing, so despite our lazy pace we always come back having climbed enough.

Tres Ponts is a small crag near Andorra, and gets its name from the nearby three bridges crossing the Rio Segre. The rock itself is unique, more than anything because of the endless “cantos invertidos” or jug underclings. An undercling is just like any other hold except it’s upside down. To get an idea of the holds at Tres Ponts imagine grabbing the lip of a bucket, now turn the bucket upside down. A lot of the climbing revolved around reaching up high to an undercling, placing the feet as high as possible, reaching for another undercling, repeat, repeat, and repeat. It’s exhausting, especially considering the climbing is all overhanging. Another technicality is that since the holds are upside down it’s impossible to rest with a straight arm. If you want to rest your forearms you are forced to actively hold your upper body in a flexed position, usually a position resembling carrying furniture. Well it turns out I’m pretty good at the style because I had my best weekend of first go climbing to date! On Saturday I bagged the 35 meter Instint Salvatge 12c onsight after a long fight to the anchors. I think the route name accurately describes my state of being during the climb, pure savage instinct. For a long stretch of the climb I was fighting for every hold, no time to rest or to chalk, just movement. It was perfect. I’ll remember that one for a while.

Here are some shots of the only climb I fell on the whole weekend. Of course I don't have photos of the climbs I did...

Half of Equipo Caracoles: Me, Edu, Dimitry 

The evening brought the usual tonterías from Equipo Caracol. After finding out that we would have to wait another hour for dinner, we quickly rushed to the local sausage store where they serve free samples. Apparently the store is famous in Spain, and some top chefs special order the sausages for their restaurants. Being a starving climber made the samples even more delicious. That only killed half an hour, so we decided to go back to the restaurant and beg to be served a little early. A nice three course dinner and some local wine quickly sent us scurrying towards our sleeping bags.

We were back to Tres Ponts on Sunday with high spirits. After warming up on a tough 11d and one of the best 12a’s I have ever done, Dimitry and I decided to have a go at one of the area classics: Alt Urgell 12d. Dimitry went first, figuring out the powerful opening sequence, but a small error botched his onsight a few moves later. After getting to the top I lowered him down and prepared to give the route a good flash go. A flash is similar to an onsight in that it is a first try, but unlike an onsight a flash means the climber knows the moves of the climb. In this case since I had seen Dimitry climb the opening moves and I had asked him about the moves above, so I knew what to do and what to expect. I managed to link the small edges and technical climbing through the first few bolts. Despite nearly falling on some easier climbing, I finished off all 35 meters and clip the chains without falling, my first 12d flash.

Tres Ponts

The school week between climbing adventures was much worse than normal and hopefully the worst week of the year. Several long days and one long night were spent writing a final essay for my Greek Art class. I don’t get any credit for the class, but for some reason I still put a lot of effort into the essay.

Next up was the infamous Siurana. I should say famous, but after my last experience getting terrified twenty feet above a bolt unable to move Siurana permanently earned the “in-“ prefix. Saturday somewhat mirrored my first experience, but was a bit less terrifying. In terms of performance it was definitely the worst day of climbing I’ve had in a long time. I only onsighted two 11c’s and an 11d, falling on both 12a’s and a 12b. To put this into perspective I haven’t fallen on a 12a or 12b in a several months, and in this case I was actually unable to do the crux moves on one of the 12a’s and the 12b. The style of climbing of Siurana is the opposite of what I am good at: small edges, vertical climbing, and very technical. The good thing is that it exposed a weakness, and I can clearly see what I need to do to improve. Sunday I got on a couple climbs that were a little more suitable for my style and I had a great day. A couple easy onsights were followed by getting spanked on an 11d. I finished off the day with my best 12c onsight and a nice 12a onsight. The 12c “El prado del rey” was probably the most difficult onsight I have done to date. In seems silly to onsight a 12c but fail on an 11d. I guess it all comes down to the style of the climb. The 12c was much more physical and based on endurance while the 11d was more technical. Overall the weekend was great, and I hope I can come back to Siurana to continue improving and to keep on learning.