Almost reluctantly I took my leave from this little world. My goal for the day was The El Prado Museum of Art. The imposing buildings of the Prado were on their own block of land. There was a sweeping plaza that led up to the doors. This was my first encounter with a common street performer who was dressed as a headless man in an overcoat with a thin wire holding up his hat. This character would make a shrill kazoo-like sound as he would do his street performance with his tip bucket nearby. It was a very annoying sound. I would have paid him to stop that noise, but I doubted I could have made myself understood. The doors that were visible were not the entrance; the banners gave no indication of where that might be. I wandered around avoiding the street performers who I was near to punching out. Off to the side among a group of interpretive statues I found the entrance. A couple of Euros and a full body cavity search later and I was inside the lobby where my bag, camera and trekking pole had to be checked in. The museum was large and spacious. It felt like an modern airport terminal building. There was a gift shop and a café. Right, so where are the art exhibits? They were in the old wings of the museum. I soon discovered the long halls of artwork that displayed everything from ancient Greek statues, imagine that, to current art work. I was looking for the classics. The medieval religious art was depressing in general. It was too much hellfire and brimstone for me. What I really liked were the portraits of the royalty of the 17th and 18th centuries. To see these works in the paint was unique. The best imaging online or in books could not capture the exquisite details and grandeur of these works. Many of the pieces I had seen in books, but you cannot begin to appreciate the detail and large scale of the paintwork. The subject’s eyes seemed like they were looking back at you through the ages. It was like they were alive and could step out of the paint and smite thee with their sword. A special exhibit of Goya’s work was on display if only I could find the hall. I wandered around following the multi-language signs with arrows and wound up climbing several staircases, making turns, descending staircases and wound up right where I started. The information booth was empty the first go around and manned by non-English speaking personnel the second time around. Finally I found someone who was kind enough to show me on the museum map where to go to get there. Once I got out of my death spiral the other signs became clearer and I could figure out my way. For a main exhibit this was very out of the way. Francisco de Goya’s work was divided into three halls, his playful early period where he focused cartoons depicting the lives of the everyday people for the design of tapestries, his romantic middle period with it’s idealistic view on love and courtly portraiture, and his Black Paintings where his final fear for his own sanity and his disillusionment with humanity created fourteen grotesque, nightmarish paintings that were apparently never meant to be made public. I liked his early and middle periods. They were beautiful works. I was gratified to see the real paintings. The Black Paintings were something entirely different. Where the other halls were crowded with school children and Asian tourists this one was nearly empty. I could see why. The art was very horrifying and depressing. Monsters and people writhing in Hell was the predominant theme there. I think Francisco had a bad day. It sure didn’t help mine any.
Posted on: Thu, 03 Oct 2013 00:43:20 +0000
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