Contemplating a self portrait.

There seems to be a low wall between me and that which I hope to accomplish. Only a few bricks high--I can see over it easily--nevertheless, I trip over it every morning and fall into the abyss of the internet. Like quicksand, the infinite allure of more knowledge--of exotic lands and well-told stories--forms the mortar that holds the wall in place.

Will I paint today? Probably not. The rain forms a sheathing that holds my imagination captive indoors. The studio may as well be in Siberia.

If my words were paint, would they form a thick impasto? Would a form take shape before me? Would a tulpa stare out at me with a deft reflective glint in its eye? Would it look out at the world inquisitively, wondering what future viewers would project from their minds onto my face? Would the story they tell about me be accurate?

Only if I tell my own story as genuinely as I am able.

Photo taken with self-timer on Canon AE-1 in approximately 1982.

I'll never be the same.

And neither will my paintings, it would appear. They started their journey rolled... and arrived here looking like... Origami. Hmmmm. Perhaps this will serve as inspiration for a new "fusion" art form. (haha--nod to Janie) Well, I'm sure that--once stretched--they will be just fine.

Back to unpacking.

Where in the world is Waldo?

I am on the bus. This is cool... wi-fi from Bangor to Logan, I can post my final communique from foreign lands! Bangor, Maine is pretty foreign too. That's from whence I am departing at this very moment (top pic). And the second pic is from the BCN-Heathrow flight, as I was passing over the Pyrenees. A spectacular trip.

Home run!

A marathon day.

The bus pulled out of the bat cave into the daylight at 10 a.m. Mr. Toad's wild ride was underway. I had the whole island to cover, and didn't appreciate that the bus was 5 min. late! lol

First stop: Valldemossa, and the monastery tryst of Chopin and George Sand. Check. Cute town? Check. Wander a bit, hop on the bus for next stop: Deiá.

Oh yes, Deiá--my favorite! A pleasant lunch on a terrace in the sun, including the best roasted pepper and squash soup--with toasted pumpkin seeds, fresh carrrot slices, sprouts (and more)--and a small cerveza de barilla. Aaah.

Hop on the bus again, to Sóller, this stretch a white-knuckler ohmygawd, even closed my eyes on one turn, in spite of being determined not to. My mind was furiously attempting to invent new words to describe this... this.... this......... But failed. Film at 11.

Sóller. WTF? Where am I? No map, info, people, nada. Shops closed. Hm. Start walking... 10 min. or so, and I could hear people. Ah-ha, civilization. Noticed some tracks in the street, followed them, yes!, the plaza--this is promising. Continued up the hill... found the station. Considered going back to Palma on the first train, I'm not liking this place. Oh, but here's the trolley to Port of Sóller. What the heck, hopped on, it pulled out of the station 3 min. later. Holy cow--need new words. (I'll get back to you with them.) The trolley is as rustic as they come, wooden seats, views that could poke your eyes out. Yikes! Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhhhhh!

Arrive in the Port de Sóller, on the far north side of the island. Boats. LOTS of boats. Breathtaking views. (Lots of tourist chachkas, we'll skip those.) Ramble a bit, then park it for a cappucino. The Italians do have words for this: dolce far niente (roughly: sweet doing nothing) Half hour before trolley returns; stroll a bit more. Hop on. Back to Sóller.

Still not much impressed with Sóller, even tho' some places are open now (the post-siesta segment). Wander. OMG, look at that! The sun on the tramuntana is.... GAH! Run up the street. Click, click, click. Back down. Check station, see if tix available in advance. Not yet. 30 min. to spare. Hm. Oh! A free Picasso ceramics exhibit in the station. 15 min. left now. Oh, again! Across the courtyard, a free Miró exhibit. (Still don't get Miró, guess I'm a Philistine.)

Train pulls out of Sóller. A bit of light in the sky, and then it's dark. Through the tunnels, across the valley, palm trees and churches uplighted. The train car is heated. Guess where it comes out? On your lower back!!! It's radiant heat. (Really, I could not make this s**t up!!!!) Aaaaahhhhh. Rattle rattle, click, clack.

Back in Palma. Walk through Plaza Espana, Down C/ San Miguel (bustling with Christmas crowds), down the bazillion stairs to my street, past CaixaForum. Yes! I've made it in time for the local Caixa exhibit: "The Cinema Effect". Only enough patience for Lonely Planet Julian Rosefeldt's short. Bollywood meets backpacking! Too fun! Wish I could get it on DVD. (Nope.)

Sigh. I'm almost home. Wait, there's a superb sax player, doing the Ave Maria. OK, one more video. Now I'm almost in the barn... wait! What's this? This door was never open... the portrait photographer. Wow!

Almost home... hey, across from the hotel's front door... this was never open before. A nativity scene-like recreation of the whole island, in miniature! Buzzed that. OK. Enough!

YES. 10 hours later... full circuit. Didn't even break a sweat. HA! Home run! What a day!!!

P.S. Sorry 'bout the phone line in the pic... will p'shop it out when I get home. Gotta pack again now.

Oops.

I sat on the wrong side of the plane. So top pic is taken across five seats and the aisle with the zoom lens, through the dirty plane window. Perhaps I'll have better luck on the final leg, back to BCN to fly home. Still you can imagine, it was pretty exciting coming into Palma de Mallorca.

Second pic is a grab shot out the taxi window. Holy mackerel, Andy--that is one BIGASS cathedral!

Third pic is a few steps out the hotel door--on the top part of Passeig del Born. Christmas is in full swing here too.

And lastly--continuing my evening walk--another shot of that overwhelmingly huge and awesome Cathedral, La Seu, lit magnificently--as is the king's palace to the left of it, Palau de l'Almudaina--perhaps I'll post that one later. I gotta scoot--I do not have my intentions in place yet for Mallorca, and time is way too short here.

¡hasta luego!

Farewell my lovely.

...my lovely Madrid, that is. I'm packing and flying out early tomorrow. I hope to get out for a last tapas or two and cerveza at Viva Madrid (2nd pic), or perhaps the place next door which is very highly touted--I can't remember its name at the moment, I am pretty well spent right now. But I thought I'd leave you with some pretties, to hold you over, because it's likely to be a couple of days before I post again. (Especially since yesterday had no pics, lo siento!)

Mallorca, here I come!

Pondering Rembrandt

As I look Rembrandt in the eye, or try to--he's looking slightly to the left of me, which is a little frustrating--I am marveling about the miracle that is this work, here and now, speaking to me from the 17th century. "1642-43", according to the I.D. plaque. He lived to be 63 years old--in a year I will catch up to him in that way, at least!

Underneath the two strings of crystals (the curators think those are gold chains; I disagree)--which are draped across his fur-trimmed cloak--he's wearing.... a t-shirt! He has about 2-1/2 chins, and they need a shave. He has observed his subjects with great intensity, which is evidenced by the deep crevice in his forehead, just above his nose. He is preoccupied with something, but not really worried about it. No, it's more like.... sadness.

The indirect gaze gives a pensive quality, as if he's saying to me "Well, here I am. What you see is what you get." There is no pretense in his gaze. Doing the math, I realize he's only 36 here, and will continue to paint many more masterpieces. Perhaps none as fine as this one, though. Maybe he's pondering what to paint next.

A half dozen portraits on either side of him, painted by others--all fine citizens of their day, I am sure. They're decked out in their finery. All dressed up and nowhere to go. And nothing to say. But Rembrandt has a lot to say, my eyes return to his face like there's some magnetic force field embedded in that string of crystals. What is the message? I will ponder that further, when I get "home" this evening.

Written on Dec. 1, 2011 while communing with Rembrandt's "Self-Portrait".
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So I did ponder--and google--this evening, and what to my surprise, discovered that this self-portrait (photo posted yesterday) was painted at the time that his first child died, or within a year of that event (again, the plaque gives a time-span, not a date: "1642-43"). That look in his eyes? It is sadness. And two more children died after the first. So I'm thinking that there's only enough sadness in his eyes for one death; the curators could perhaps say more definitively that the painting was completed in 1642.

What do you think... shall apply for The History Detective show?!