Spring at last

This time last year I was waiting for spring to raise its sleepy head and it was taking its sweet laissez fare time. Really, spring doesn't do its thing until late April in Paris. The French Film Festival was about to happen at home and I knew my daffodils, crocus and weeping pussy willow would be bursting with glory... and it was still very much like February in Paris. As much as I adore this great city February made me homesick.

This year spring is literaly at my doorstep and every day I make time to plant something. Its difficult since everything else seems to happen in March. Deadlines make me dizzy this time of year and I've become as rebellious as I can afford to be... ok, maybe more rebellious than I can afford to be but that's the price of being 40 something. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do or else ya may never get the chance to.

Since I haven't had time to post photos of the spring here I've posted some rebirthish images from Chelsea and MOMA. Spring is where you can find it sometimes and it sure wasn't on the sidewalks when we were in NYC last weekend.

The blue-green painting to the right is by Joan Snyder. I wish I had asked for a title sheet so I could post it but I was distracted by the fact that she was in the gallery that morning and she was very beautiful and chatting up a young art history major. I asked her to sign her catalogue and then asked her if I could take a photo of her in front of one of her paintings. She said I was pushing it but she agreed to pose for me. I guess she empathized since if there is one thing she taught other women artists how to do is push it.

From the wayside, between the lines

Madrid's Botanical Garden

The train from Bilbao arrived without cause. I woke in time to wash my face and gather my belongings. (around 8am) It felt better... arriving in a station I was familiar with.* I was still on the fence about what to do... seville, cordoba or madrid? My research at Atocha proved very helpful in that regard. The fare for the high speed train was substantially higher than I was prepared to pay in my state of weariness.... more than 100 E. I decided to take a night and clear my head before C & C arrived. I gathered myself and headed north toward the Prado. If nothing else, there was always the museo and their coat check! As I grew closer to the Prado I looked left and right in search of a sign. There was a hotel to the left...too shabby and big and close to the street. As the Prado loomed closer I came to a small Plaza on the left, across the street from the Botanical Garden. It was circled by a tapas place, a wine bar and more. In the middle was a fountain and beyond that a small sign that read HOSTAL!

I walked over and rang the bell and spanish errupted from the speaker. I asked if there was a room and they buzzed me in! I opened the door to see a LIFT!!!** I went up and the man asked me if I had a reservation. no, I said and he nodded sadly and held up his hands in that universal expression of "there is nothing I can do..."
Another woman said Wait(!) would this be ok? She opened a door to a tiny room with a single bed, tiny desk, lamp, wardrobe and a sink!!! H E A V E N.

Hostal Bruna was perfect for my needs. I washed my face, changed clothes, well, rearranged what I was wearing - and left shortly therafter to taste Madrid! I purchaced the local listing, as recommended by everyone*** and began the afternoon at the botanical garden. There was an exhibition titled "25 Spanish Artists of the Future in the gallery toward the back of the garden. I'll try to post photos soon. It seemed much a like a very good MFA show though the space was great and there was definitly some work I to be enjoyed.

Afterwards I decided to walk up Paseo Prado and Recoleto ISO lunch and perhaps an art fair I found in the listing. I started ISO Cafe Guijon where artists and writers have gathered for decaded. Touristy and expensive. I found another wonderful cafe further down on Paseo Ricoleto with a menu del dias of 10 E! That included bottled water, a cafe con leche, fried cod and an excellent plate of rice and seafood. Contentment.

I continued my walk north ISO of this friggin art fair of 40 Spanish Galleries... I walked, walked and walked. After almost two hours I came upon it... ferme. Closed. A week ago. The listing was wrong. A misprint. Of course I wouldn't have known this is another artist hadn't told me. She made her way there, too. She was Spanish but spoke excellent English. She called the security guards using the number in the listing to confirm what was going on. We checked out another show that was about to open in an adjacent gallery and she pointed out the best galleries on my map. She also told me about the magic bus number 27 which would take me all the way home. Well, at least as far as the hostal!

I watched a film on my computer just to veg and went out about 11pm in search of dinner. I guess I'm turning into a Spaniard. The places close to the hostal were a little too smokey for my mood so I found a market, discovered from wonderful Spanish Sausage (NOW I understand my Hemingway was also so excited about sausage and ham... I thought he was just a manly carnivore but this stuff is the best in the world. I wonder if it is legal to bring some back to the states? We'll see.

*I'll never forget getting out at the Bilbao station. It was dark and it was raining and I had no idea which way to go or what to do. Jet lag and ambien will add to the confusion already caused by an out of date map on the walls of the station and no open toilet, info desk, etc. It was s a d. A beautiful train station with no ammenties for the Guggenhiem pilgrims... hmmm. I hope this isn't a trend.

** another good sign!

***not recommended by me!

Missed Signals

Word of warning. Don't ask for directions to the train station unless specifying which one you need to go to... especially in Madrid! I needed to go to Chamartin. All northbound trains depart from there. I was directed to Atocha - which I loved - but it was the wrong station so I began my Spain experience by missing the train I'd reserved from the airport early this am.

Atocha has its charms... a rich botanical garden complete with turtles, a tourist info counter, coffee shops and shopping - but few electical outlets. A woman with a cell phone a laptop is always in search of a stray outlet. I could have taken the time to see a museum or stroll in the city but my jet lag was getting the best of me and I thought I'd do best to sit still or to carefully make my way to the Chamartin station. Its on a line that reminds of the RER trains in Paris. I could never figure out those buggers. Whenever I take an RER train I always want specific instructions - like when I visited my cousin outside of Paris - and even then I am never quite sure I am on the right train until we pass the first outbound station. Maybe its my dyslexia combined with jetlag... but the first pass to find that station was a disaster - which is why I missed the early train. It was all for the best since I didn't have reservations for accomodations in Bilbao and realized I could sleep on the night train. The Renfre trains are clean, spacious and this one was full of empty seats. I buried my belongings under my skirts, took half an Ambien and dreamt of Spanish Ham. zzzz. ZZZZZZ. zzzzzzzz

Who do, voo doo, you do

So many things to write about this morning... perhaps coffee will crank my engine. It is rainy with occassional thunder breaking the quiet. Timing has been everything this week. It's been cold, grey and wet since we woke on Friday to Miro's bellowing.

I spent most of the day dreading the inevitable reality of listening to the infamous Dr. John perform outside in the cold rain at the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden. I don't blame the Dr. - who observed we all had more heart than brains... I blame the greedy promoter and the naive staff at the LGB garden for putting together such a thoughtless arrangment on an October evening. Yes, the folk festival is next weekend and yes it might rain but the folk festival is free and there will be tents. This event was not cheap, our tickets were purchaced more than a month ago and there was no tent. I'll never purchace tickets in advance again for an event to be performed there. It was simply lame. Putting together a music program isn't rocket science.

The ONLY reason I could justify staying the length of the show is that regardless of how miserable we were I knew it was nothing compared to what the artists and residents of New Orleans endured post Katrina. I tried not to whimper, but once again, I blame it on the management for their greed and unwillingness to address their responsibilities. C'est la vie.

The Who do link here will take you to an interesting artist blog I've been following. If you are interested in the questions artists ask other artists you'll enjoy it.
After visiting the Dr. last night, we saw some solid art and heard people still buzzing about the Jerry Saltz lecture from this past Wednesday. Mr. Saltz was just what the doctor ordered...
and more. He was a real ham... but the good kind.

Can you tell me who's in charge here? I thought you were. Can YOU tell me who's in charge here? Yes, I can.

He reminded us that its hard to make a difference from the center so you make wherever you are the center... the words of Dave Hickey - who should be a southerner if he isn't. That was certainly always my protocal growing up... particularly at university. It's much harder now... not impossible... just harder. The art world really doesn't care about anything other than gazing at its own navel so it doesn't matter if better things are happening elsewhere else as long as the belly of the beast is being fed. Yes, I agree with Saltz... the artworld is the wikipedia of places to have a career... much less make art.