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.