What a glorious day. How magnificent is Guggenheim Bilbao? Utterly magnificent. I would put it on the list of places to see on sunny days but I'd enter by the main entrance and be totally overwhelmed by the Richard Serra installation because it's immense.
It arrests the thinking process, takes you somewhere, makes you feel, really feel. What it makes you feel I have no idea but follow his steelwork with your shoulder and watch the shapes unfold above you, feel the constraint, experience the space he creates, observe the constantly changing light around you, wonder at how he did it and enjoy the awareness of shape, especially intersecting cones, torus sections, concave and convex intersections. Stroll in ever decreasing circles, spirals and finally with straight edges delineating a directional change get to the innermost edge and lean against the cold steel in awe and have your thoughts blown away as a studio flash mounted on the ceiling adjacent to a camera make itself known.
Get told off by a uniformed lady in Spanish explaining that the camera with a cross through it prominently displayed meant no photos. Ooooops. Sorry, but I honestly hadn't seen that one. Well done Canon for having a silent mode.
All this and you haven't started yet. On the way in the walk around the building is an experience in its own right, the bridge even has a lift to ensure that you are not too tired as you approach. Every aspect has been thought out. Outside, The Puppy makes you smile, the smoke tells you the time and the titanium, glass, steel and limestone put you in your place. These things last. You don't, not as you are, anyway.
An utterly fabulous experience.
The top floor has a Yoko Ono exhibition. Now, if "art" is meant to arrest you, do something to you or for you, amuse, inform, enquire, inquire, smile, grimace, laugh, cry, feel something. Something good, something bad, whatever but something. Yoko Ono's does nothing. It is dross. Froth. I'm no art critic, I don't know much about it but I have been privileged to stand before some fantastic stuff, ancient and modern, some I've liked, some I've truly disliked, some I've loved, some has left me stunned and amazed and glad to be alive and some hasn't but her's left me empty, not wanting to engage with it, not caring about it, not wishing to share it with anyone. I may not know art but I do know about The Emperor's new clothes. This is like that. It is froth. A vain statement that she exists and has conned a curator to give space to cups, saucers and a teapot. A wall of framed drawings that I wouldn't hang anywhere that light could fall on them, a row of indistinct but recognisably similar photos each with a different title. Even her "magnetic" dining room is puerile, some of her other exhibits are just porn.
As for having her records displayed without her late husband's made me realise that without him she'd be nowhere. And a complete nobody that none of us had ever heard of, let alone admitted to this level of exposure.
This is the saddest art exhibition I have ever seen, it is an ego trip, sanctioned by some admirer who would have been in the crowd applauding The Emperor as he passed by.
If I'd climbed the stairs to see it I'd have considered that the energy I'd used in getting there was far more valuable than the sum total of what she's put on display.
Go to Guggenheim Bilbao. Wait till after the 18th May. See what else they can find to put there. Anything would be infinitely preferable. Even the empty space would say more than she has.
Her husband would have seen The Emperor's new clothes for what they were, he had talent enough to recognise pretensiousness and probably would have spared us all from that which fills floor three.
Jeremy Clarkson once said that art was what they put in art galleries.
He was wrong.
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
Tuesday, May 06, 2014
Things can only get better. Oh, they just did!
We just got back from a rather wonderful Bodega on a back street in uptown Castro Urdiales where we hit Hora Filiz, happy hour, where two for one was inflicted upon us, double helpings of a superb tortilla washed down with a double dose of local beer plus the extra one that was not required by it's intended recipient. Not knowing of this custom meant that orders given were acted upon and a hearty meal was had by all. The eventual bill was less than €10 and we left both replete and joyful.
Upon our return to the suite a shower was insisted upon so I took the opportunity to avail myself of the XL pressed white bath robe. I've seen these in films where they always seem to fit the actor beautifully. The XL, however, is barely sufficient in width to cover diameter of the person in need of the preservation of dignity but if one sits just so it does it's job and is very smart.
Imagine my surprise, then, when it was found to include a pair of beautifully embroidered slippers as well. I was staggered and if I wear them much longer I'll spend tomorrow staggering too, but attired in an embroidered white robe with matching slippers reclining on one corner of the vast balcony with a glass of red I have to confess that all is well with the world.
Glancing over my left shoulder I note that the telly is on and even from about 40' away still manages to impose although one couldn't say it looked out of place.
If this is how some live I can only say that they don't know how good they've got it. Yesterday an outside double cabin, today a penthouse suite.
Tomorrow, Bilbao, by bus.
At this rate you never know, a limo may arrive to take us!
Upon our return to the suite a shower was insisted upon so I took the opportunity to avail myself of the XL pressed white bath robe. I've seen these in films where they always seem to fit the actor beautifully. The XL, however, is barely sufficient in width to cover diameter of the person in need of the preservation of dignity but if one sits just so it does it's job and is very smart.
Imagine my surprise, then, when it was found to include a pair of beautifully embroidered slippers as well. I was staggered and if I wear them much longer I'll spend tomorrow staggering too, but attired in an embroidered white robe with matching slippers reclining on one corner of the vast balcony with a glass of red I have to confess that all is well with the world.
Glancing over my left shoulder I note that the telly is on and even from about 40' away still manages to impose although one couldn't say it looked out of place.
If this is how some live I can only say that they don't know how good they've got it. Yesterday an outside double cabin, today a penthouse suite.
Tomorrow, Bilbao, by bus.
At this rate you never know, a limo may arrive to take us!
I should be in a suit.
The early morning plinky plonk music that preceded the flat tones of the tri-lingual lady have faded from memory. Shortly the memory of the stampede for the car decks will have faded as well. As we were last off and remarkably fast adopters of The Spanish Way it took little effort to allow those in pursuit of time to pass, albeit with some difficulty at the lift doors on each landing of the eight decks which we needed to descend.
Once settled in the car it was most amusing to observe the manoeuvring styles adopted by drivers attempting to extricate themselves from a corner in the bowels of Brittany Ferries' finest. Or one of them. Slowly and graciously we brought up the rear, set the position on the satnav to " home," flashed the passports and joined the arterial system of norther Spain. Easy enough, all I had to do was to listen to the two ladies, one told me where to go the other droned on helpfully telling me to keep to the right, keep right, the other right, that right, etc., etc..
All this before 0800 local and after only un cafe y no desunayo either. By 0900 the satnav had us parked between two rather large Mercs outside the hotel kindly offered to us by Brittany Ferries. A humble Jazz did look out of place admittedly but this was obviously a sign, although we didn't realise it the time. Maybe we should have realised that our hotel was a bit good as it has it's own signage from the motorway to the door. The fact that it's flags wave over the town was also a clue. We hoped for a nice room, we didn't expect to be under the Union Flag.
The reception lady suggested a wander and return in a couple of hours would see our room readied for us. A delightful stroll around Castro Urdinales, dos cafés y un sandwich, find the bus stop for tomorrow's bus to Bilbao and return along a sandy beach, still being swept and manicured and we're back. Nice place. Nothing special but nice. The Jazz still looks out of place.
The lady was sorry but there was a problem and there was only one room left, 502. What was the problem, then? It's not a room it's a suite. A full on suite. The lift told us that floors 1-3 have 18 rooms each, 4 had 15 and 5 had 5.
Enter through the door and a corridor leads to the bathroom complex, sharp left and there's a bed. It is wider than it is long and it is far longer than me. There's a telly that's bigger than would fit through our front door at home, a Grundig surround sound system than my iPod sits in, sadly it is so old that the iPad isn't catered for. Stroll past the fridge and kitchen area, detour around the bed and eventually you get to the balcony. Balcony? You could play tennis here. It overlooks the beach we'd wandered over a short while ago, the harbour entrance is in full view, too.
The wifi is like last year's F1 cars, fast and it lets you know it's fast too. Screaming, really. Once the coffee had been made I explored the bathroom and I shall now have to use all it's facilities just so I get to wear the pristine white towelling bath robes pressed in their plastic sleeves and hanging on their separate hooks. I shall only wear one, of course. It just has to be done.
We had thought we'd explore further this afternoon but we made our way to the nearest supermercado, purchased a bottle of red, three litres of San Miguel, un pain, un tin of olives (stuffed), un jar of allioli and a bar of Valor almond chocolate.
We are back.
The balcony.
The view.
The cuisine.
400 miles apart in space, coincidental in mind.
I love The Spanish Way.
It really doesn't get much better than this.
And, yes, I do feel that I ought to be in a suit.
Like all the people meeting down on the lower floors.
Oh, well, shorts, sandals and an only slightly soiled shirt will have to do.
Not that it matters.
I'm not going anywhere!
Once settled in the car it was most amusing to observe the manoeuvring styles adopted by drivers attempting to extricate themselves from a corner in the bowels of Brittany Ferries' finest. Or one of them. Slowly and graciously we brought up the rear, set the position on the satnav to " home," flashed the passports and joined the arterial system of norther Spain. Easy enough, all I had to do was to listen to the two ladies, one told me where to go the other droned on helpfully telling me to keep to the right, keep right, the other right, that right, etc., etc..
All this before 0800 local and after only un cafe y no desunayo either. By 0900 the satnav had us parked between two rather large Mercs outside the hotel kindly offered to us by Brittany Ferries. A humble Jazz did look out of place admittedly but this was obviously a sign, although we didn't realise it the time. Maybe we should have realised that our hotel was a bit good as it has it's own signage from the motorway to the door. The fact that it's flags wave over the town was also a clue. We hoped for a nice room, we didn't expect to be under the Union Flag.
The reception lady suggested a wander and return in a couple of hours would see our room readied for us. A delightful stroll around Castro Urdinales, dos cafés y un sandwich, find the bus stop for tomorrow's bus to Bilbao and return along a sandy beach, still being swept and manicured and we're back. Nice place. Nothing special but nice. The Jazz still looks out of place.
The lady was sorry but there was a problem and there was only one room left, 502. What was the problem, then? It's not a room it's a suite. A full on suite. The lift told us that floors 1-3 have 18 rooms each, 4 had 15 and 5 had 5.
Enter through the door and a corridor leads to the bathroom complex, sharp left and there's a bed. It is wider than it is long and it is far longer than me. There's a telly that's bigger than would fit through our front door at home, a Grundig surround sound system than my iPod sits in, sadly it is so old that the iPad isn't catered for. Stroll past the fridge and kitchen area, detour around the bed and eventually you get to the balcony. Balcony? You could play tennis here. It overlooks the beach we'd wandered over a short while ago, the harbour entrance is in full view, too.
The wifi is like last year's F1 cars, fast and it lets you know it's fast too. Screaming, really. Once the coffee had been made I explored the bathroom and I shall now have to use all it's facilities just so I get to wear the pristine white towelling bath robes pressed in their plastic sleeves and hanging on their separate hooks. I shall only wear one, of course. It just has to be done.
We had thought we'd explore further this afternoon but we made our way to the nearest supermercado, purchased a bottle of red, three litres of San Miguel, un pain, un tin of olives (stuffed), un jar of allioli and a bar of Valor almond chocolate.
We are back.
The balcony.
The view.
The cuisine.
400 miles apart in space, coincidental in mind.
I love The Spanish Way.
It really doesn't get much better than this.
And, yes, I do feel that I ought to be in a suit.
Like all the people meeting down on the lower floors.
Oh, well, shorts, sandals and an only slightly soiled shirt will have to do.
Not that it matters.
I'm not going anywhere!
Monday, May 05, 2014
A jolly good day to learn lessons.
At 1400BST today we passed into The Bay of Biscay. I ventured onto the weather side, of which there was some but no precipitation actual or in sight, to take a photo of where we stood a few years ago observing the tidal race and spectacular scenery. Last time I passed by it was dark, and it was October.
Since then I have been sat looking at water passing by, iPod connected and iPad displaying the manual to my camera and flash controllers. Sadly, I have rather enjoyed reading them. Aided by Meatloaf, REM, Pink Floyd and Guinness, the afternoon has disappeared at 22 knots and I now find myself tapping out the results of my exertions.
I am taken aback by the realisation that I have become like the camera. Set this, do that get the end result. Set me floating, provide mental, visual and aural stimulation, supply Guinness and my joy is complete. This is obvious and I understand it, although not all may.
What is desperately sad is that the six modes of focusing that Canon make available to me and which I still have little understanding of after eighteen months of trying are still a mystery to me and I've just read all about them again. For the umpteenth time.
Even with camera in hand, subjects in abundance and time to get to grips with it. The options stare at me from the panel on the rear screen and leaves me staring right back at my own inadequacy as I move sliders, select modes and then wonder what effect each change will make. Again.
Drat, I ought to know this stuff but try as I might it leaves me coldly aware of the fact that it may just be that my time striving to employ the heights of technology that some geeky genius of a nerd, probably in his teens and a tee shirt, bouncing around in Canon's R&D playground has put together for a dare has passed the point at which the law of diminishing returns ensures that it just goes "whooooosh" over my head like all those deadlines that Douglas Adams had.
Simplicity is now elevated above whatever virtues the advertisers fill brochures with, and next time I watch a YouTube of some kid extolling the wonders of the latest gadget I shall turn it off, or enter "Tom&Jerry Fred Quimby" in the search box unless the number of buttons is less than the number of fingers it's taken me to type this.
Maybe that's why I still play records and why I may just set the flash triggers to full on automatic mode in future. Maybe I'll do the same with the camera.
At least changing lenses hasn't beaten me. Yet.
Carrying them has, but that's another story.
Since then I have been sat looking at water passing by, iPod connected and iPad displaying the manual to my camera and flash controllers. Sadly, I have rather enjoyed reading them. Aided by Meatloaf, REM, Pink Floyd and Guinness, the afternoon has disappeared at 22 knots and I now find myself tapping out the results of my exertions.
I am taken aback by the realisation that I have become like the camera. Set this, do that get the end result. Set me floating, provide mental, visual and aural stimulation, supply Guinness and my joy is complete. This is obvious and I understand it, although not all may.
What is desperately sad is that the six modes of focusing that Canon make available to me and which I still have little understanding of after eighteen months of trying are still a mystery to me and I've just read all about them again. For the umpteenth time.
Even with camera in hand, subjects in abundance and time to get to grips with it. The options stare at me from the panel on the rear screen and leaves me staring right back at my own inadequacy as I move sliders, select modes and then wonder what effect each change will make. Again.
Drat, I ought to know this stuff but try as I might it leaves me coldly aware of the fact that it may just be that my time striving to employ the heights of technology that some geeky genius of a nerd, probably in his teens and a tee shirt, bouncing around in Canon's R&D playground has put together for a dare has passed the point at which the law of diminishing returns ensures that it just goes "whooooosh" over my head like all those deadlines that Douglas Adams had.
Simplicity is now elevated above whatever virtues the advertisers fill brochures with, and next time I watch a YouTube of some kid extolling the wonders of the latest gadget I shall turn it off, or enter "Tom&Jerry Fred Quimby" in the search box unless the number of buttons is less than the number of fingers it's taken me to type this.
Maybe that's why I still play records and why I may just set the flash triggers to full on automatic mode in future. Maybe I'll do the same with the camera.
At least changing lenses hasn't beaten me. Yet.
Carrying them has, but that's another story.
Bon voyage
Aboard Cap Finistere passing along the coast from which this vessel gets it's name at 20 knots is about as good as it gets on this glorious bank holiday Monday.
Yesterday Portsmouth, today Roscoff and tomorrow Bilbao.
Sat in a queue of cars last evening listening to a short story written by the extremely talented Barb Jungr on BBC R4 before driving into a cavernous steel hold being directed ever lower and further below the waterline is far preferable to the process of being passed acceptable to fly even if flying covers ground more quickly.
There is a lot to be said for rocking and rolling one's way over 600 miles or so of very wet terrain. For one thing it allows thinking time and iPad poking opportunities and the resurrection of this oft neglected blog.
Sorry.
Yesterday Portsmouth, today Roscoff and tomorrow Bilbao.
Sat in a queue of cars last evening listening to a short story written by the extremely talented Barb Jungr on BBC R4 before driving into a cavernous steel hold being directed ever lower and further below the waterline is far preferable to the process of being passed acceptable to fly even if flying covers ground more quickly.
There is a lot to be said for rocking and rolling one's way over 600 miles or so of very wet terrain. For one thing it allows thinking time and iPad poking opportunities and the resurrection of this oft neglected blog.
Sorry.
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