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A system worked out in steel

on December 21, 2020

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Breakfast at the Sorbonne

on October 23, 2019

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Well, next to the Sorbonne.

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A new city

I’m here: No I’m not. I’m here: Wrong again. I’m here: Good enough. Tomorrow, the Alhambra.

Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía

The third of Madrid’s triple treat, the Reina Sofia is mainly devoted to Spanish Art of the 20th Century. The big names are there - Picasso, Dali, Miró, Gris - en masse. They are kept company by lesser known locals and a smattering of international contemporaries. There’s a temporary exhibition space, currently devoted to the works of (ho, hum) Jörg Immendorff. You probably know the drill. Picasso is king of the castle, and Guernica is the crowd puller. Dali also has his fans, although he’s less savoury these days with his fascist tendencies. Miró is always good fun, but preferably in smaller doses. His work can get a bit noisy when there are twenty or more hanging next to each other. Problem is, Guernica is a bit hollow in this age of Syria and Afghanistan. It could never signal enough for the horrors of the 24 hour news cycle. Another pixel in the static noise on our screens. It’s why Goya can still get away with it. Picasso paints about an abstract nightmare. Goya paints

Coming back to you

My suitcase returned, looking very sheepish. Actually, I had to collect it from the airport, as there’s no way to get a delivery where I’m staying. I’m in Alfama, an older part of Lisbon where everything is uphill. Vehicle traffic impossível . So I wandered down the hill and grabbed an Uber. Several hours and multiple queues (take a ticket, wait your turn) later, I lugged the prodigal one up the hill to my little apartment. The rough cobbles wouldn’t allow wheeling, so it was quite the workout. The suitcase got there in good shape, me less so. I had a restrained first day in Lisbon. It being a Sunday, things were quiet, at least until the afternoon when the locals set up the sound system formerly owned by Billy Thorpe and The Aztecs 50mm from my front door. I was treated to several hours of P-Pop, which is the Iberian equivalent of K-pop only louder and more banal. I cowered on my lounge, turned my headphones to eleven, and listened to Leonard Cohen’s Avalanche. ” I stepped into

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