a rather long, but no-grump, multimedia post

The power went off in the middle of my morning shower, so to keep the bathroom lit (and demon-free or whatever) I grabbed my laptop and played E.'s Second Annual Coming of Age mix*. I ended up playing "Say Yes" by Andrea Gibson for an hour, looping it in the streets and on the metro like it was a mantra I kept repeating. I got to my History of Art class and beheld the most beautiful man in the world: eighty years old, heavy bags under his eyes because he's seen so much, hands all shaky because he's so full of energy. Here are some of my [translated, paraphrased] notes from his lecture:

"I've been here for over sixty years, first as a student, then as a professor. I studied philosophy (which I got little out of) and theology (which gave me even less). I had wanted to find God, but what I found was this: God wants us to search for him, but he doesn't want us to find him. But for me, God is all of you, He is all of my students. You are very young, lamentably young; you brain won't begin to work until you're forty years old. I'm old, I've lived a very long of a life, but my spirit's much younger than yours. That's because art is living. There was a day when I thought, 'I'm going to kill myself- but first, I'm going to drink a cup of coffee.' As I was sitting there, desperate, I heard Beethoven's Great Fugue. Before I had been deaf- a deaf musician, it cannot be! But I was deaf, in total desperation, and with the music I began to live. No, now you're too young to understand, but one day you will be desperate, and art will save you."

After class- all full of love and emotions from this man, ready for art and for insight- I went to check out a second-hand bookstore in a barrio I'd never been to. It was closed (for keeps, I think, but it's hard to tell because all of the signs here are in Catalan, which doesn't help my foreignness at all), but it was fine because this is the building that once held it:

I wonder if the architects planned all the contrast- the colors, the materials, the texture. It just blows my mind, makes me so happy.

I strolled a little through the neighborhood, was thinking of turning around and sitting at a bar, ordering some water (because I always dress incorrectly for the weather here! yesterday it was too chilly for shorts, today it was too sweltering for flannel) when I saw that the Fundació Joan Miró was nearby and thought I'd walk to it. Here's the hill I encountered, that you can't even appreciate the steepness of without three dimensions:

 

And then when I reached the top of this- sweaty, without water, still in flannel and jeans- I discovered a set of steep, nearly never-ending steps:

But I put on Gulag Orkestar by Beirut and reached the top. (A note: if you're ever stuck under the Mediterranean fall sun in flannel and climbing lots of steps, turn on this song, it's a nice mood-fitter.) There were cute little oddities on the side of the path, like a mysterious door and decaying benches:

Hanging around the museum, you start to wonder why people pay time and money for this stuff, why they aren't sitting around making their own "Man and woman in front of a pile of excrement"s. So in the sculpture garden overlooking the entire city I made my own art:

"Tourist taking pictures of tourists taking pictures of tourists". It didn't stop there; on my way down the stairs I created

"beleaf". And on my way down the street I thought maybe I should turn into the Sartorialist of buildings, because I photograph them anyway, and because it's less awkward than asking strangers if you can take their picture. The only problem is that I don't actually know anything about architecture. Anyway, the beginning of the Edifitorialist (or whatever clever name comes up, although do I like that wordplay):

color upon color upon color

 

old bricks, modern curtains

spanish saloon

dragon wall

Afterwards I bought El Hombre Libre by Tolstoy at a used-book sale on the side of the Passeig de Gracia. Good day, but Spain's getting lonely. Thanks for the comments and for keeping in touch.

*The Coming of Age ceremony, born during the summer of 2008, is a festival that lasts anywhere from a few days to a full week. Celebrations have included the planning of self-improvement goals, long drives, booze, and goddess worshipping (from Artemis to Joplin). It always begins with a year's worth of self-reflection through song.