New plaster covers wounds in old facades, etched and painted al fresco to preserve the look. Faux antiquity, civic pride.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Everything Old...
Barrio Santa Cruz is the oldest part of Sevilla. Buildings, repurposed over hundreds of years, wear their historical cloaks proudly. Often, sometimes obvious, sometimes subtle, the old meets the new.
New plaster covers wounds in old facades, etched and painted al fresco to preserve the look. Faux antiquity, civic pride.
New plaster covers wounds in old facades, etched and painted al fresco to preserve the look. Faux antiquity, civic pride.
A Sunday in Sevilla
Saturday in Sevilla is the night for family, friends and staying out until dawn or later. Sunday is to recuperate, to spend quiet time, to be with family. Plazas sprinkle small playgrounds for children throughout the city. A shopping center goes over the top. W wants to do the bungee cords a la Olympics.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Seneca, Elder and Younger, ibn Hazm and Maimomides, or Reduce, Reuse and Recycle
It is Saturday, and we board the bus for Córdoba, birthplace of Roman, Muslim and Jewish philosophers, seat of Roman and then Muslim rule for Iberia.
Dark clouds hover over the olive orchards and rolling hills. A bull´s silhouette stands sentry over this stretch of highway. His enormous blackness towers over the hilltop. A billboard for liquor, it remains despite a nationwide ban on billboards, its text painted over, its iconic shape a promise, and for some, a threat. A few kilometres more, a black guitar points to the sky. Someone quips, "Buddy Holly," and my mind sees the familiar black frames, corraling the guitar.
Rain falls for a mile or two and then stops, only to start again as the miles click off. It stops again, and the sun bleaches the clouds to brilliant white, a luminous foil for ancient structures towering over the city. We arrive.
As we cross the Puente Romana (roman bridge) to reach the city center. the Rio Guadalquivir flows beneath, on its way to Sevilla and the Atlantic Ocean. I ask if people canoe or raft it but get an incomplete answer.
A towering monument to San Rafael greets all who cross the bridge. San Rafael, the patron saint of Córdoba, saves the town from earthquake in the 1800´s, a miracle worthy of this memorial.
And then, the Mezquita (mosque). Massive doors centered in arched frames of mosaic tile hint but do not give away the incredible architecture inside. A courtyard of trees, orange now (Spanish), palm before (Muslim), suggests its former use for Muslim pre-prayer abulations only in the network of irrigation channels that course through the laid stone to the trees. Fountains spout water into the channels, a drink against the hot Spanish sun.
Inside, an infinity of red and white double arches perched atop reclaimed and reused Roman marble columns. The story goes many ways, that the first caliph of the conquered Roman province bought this site of a former Roman/Christian church, or that the caliph simply razed the church and built the mosque on top. The mechanics of the story´s how fall away in the magnificent of the Mezquita. It is a quintessintial example of reduce, reuse and recycle, though the reduce has connotations more fitting for conquering than living green.
Marble floors, paved with reused Roman stone and sprinkled with inset headstones of Spanish notables, lead beneath the incredible arches and into the small family chapels that outline the perimeter of the vast space. Marble, brick, tile and plaster, a glorious assemblage of found architecture.
There are no corners,and there were no walls until the Reconquista, when Spain regains control of its peninsula. And then, in predictable but lamentable fashion, the Catholic Church remakes the Mezquita in its own image. It builds a soaring Gothic cathedral, complete with elaborate vaulted ceilings, gold leaf, painted frescoes and flying buttresses, in the middle of the Mezquita. History is nothing, if not incongruous. Incongruity has an order unto itself, a pattern that weave its way through a place, a people, a culture. Philosophers know this and explore its vagaries and its instances.
A few metres from the Mezquita, is an instance, vagaries swept aside through a culture narrowed by fear, greed, and power. Though heralded as a progressive city for its inclusiveness, its architecture often tells a different story. Tucked away one of many narrow, cobbled streets, the 14th-century synagogue stands. Its walled entry courtyard suggests a home, like any other found in Córdoba. The front door, however, opens into a prayer room complete with a women´s gallery. It is less than 550 square feet in size. The walls are covered with plasterwork in the Mudéjar style, intricate patterns incised into the carefully restored walls. People speak softly in deference to the small space, to the realization that the last prayers, the last Shabbat in this place of worship were in 1492. We leave. From across the narrow calle (street), morning prayers rain down, and we see glimpses of a tallit through the barred open window.
The limit of our four-hour visit speeds us to the Caliph´s Baths. Speed was of essence in the building of the Mesquita, for the care of the soul. The baths, of parallel importance for the care of the body and of business, showcase the skill of the Moors in harvesting and using water. Skilled plumbers, the Moors. And busy! A Moorish town was known for the number of its baths.
The church bells sound 3pm, and we return to Sevilla. Cristina is horrified that we give Córdoba only four hours. She insists that we go back for at least a full day. We promise ourselves, and her, to return.
Dark clouds hover over the olive orchards and rolling hills. A bull´s silhouette stands sentry over this stretch of highway. His enormous blackness towers over the hilltop. A billboard for liquor, it remains despite a nationwide ban on billboards, its text painted over, its iconic shape a promise, and for some, a threat. A few kilometres more, a black guitar points to the sky. Someone quips, "Buddy Holly," and my mind sees the familiar black frames, corraling the guitar.
Rain falls for a mile or two and then stops, only to start again as the miles click off. It stops again, and the sun bleaches the clouds to brilliant white, a luminous foil for ancient structures towering over the city. We arrive.
As we cross the Puente Romana (roman bridge) to reach the city center. the Rio Guadalquivir flows beneath, on its way to Sevilla and the Atlantic Ocean. I ask if people canoe or raft it but get an incomplete answer.
A towering monument to San Rafael greets all who cross the bridge. San Rafael, the patron saint of Córdoba, saves the town from earthquake in the 1800´s, a miracle worthy of this memorial.
And then, the Mezquita (mosque). Massive doors centered in arched frames of mosaic tile hint but do not give away the incredible architecture inside. A courtyard of trees, orange now (Spanish), palm before (Muslim), suggests its former use for Muslim pre-prayer abulations only in the network of irrigation channels that course through the laid stone to the trees. Fountains spout water into the channels, a drink against the hot Spanish sun.
Inside, an infinity of red and white double arches perched atop reclaimed and reused Roman marble columns. The story goes many ways, that the first caliph of the conquered Roman province bought this site of a former Roman/Christian church, or that the caliph simply razed the church and built the mosque on top. The mechanics of the story´s how fall away in the magnificent of the Mezquita. It is a quintessintial example of reduce, reuse and recycle, though the reduce has connotations more fitting for conquering than living green.
Marble floors, paved with reused Roman stone and sprinkled with inset headstones of Spanish notables, lead beneath the incredible arches and into the small family chapels that outline the perimeter of the vast space. Marble, brick, tile and plaster, a glorious assemblage of found architecture.
There are no corners,and there were no walls until the Reconquista, when Spain regains control of its peninsula. And then, in predictable but lamentable fashion, the Catholic Church remakes the Mezquita in its own image. It builds a soaring Gothic cathedral, complete with elaborate vaulted ceilings, gold leaf, painted frescoes and flying buttresses, in the middle of the Mezquita. History is nothing, if not incongruous. Incongruity has an order unto itself, a pattern that weave its way through a place, a people, a culture. Philosophers know this and explore its vagaries and its instances.
A few metres from the Mezquita, is an instance, vagaries swept aside through a culture narrowed by fear, greed, and power. Though heralded as a progressive city for its inclusiveness, its architecture often tells a different story. Tucked away one of many narrow, cobbled streets, the 14th-century synagogue stands. Its walled entry courtyard suggests a home, like any other found in Córdoba. The front door, however, opens into a prayer room complete with a women´s gallery. It is less than 550 square feet in size. The walls are covered with plasterwork in the Mudéjar style, intricate patterns incised into the carefully restored walls. People speak softly in deference to the small space, to the realization that the last prayers, the last Shabbat in this place of worship were in 1492. We leave. From across the narrow calle (street), morning prayers rain down, and we see glimpses of a tallit through the barred open window.
The limit of our four-hour visit speeds us to the Caliph´s Baths. Speed was of essence in the building of the Mesquita, for the care of the soul. The baths, of parallel importance for the care of the body and of business, showcase the skill of the Moors in harvesting and using water. Skilled plumbers, the Moors. And busy! A Moorish town was known for the number of its baths.
The church bells sound 3pm, and we return to Sevilla. Cristina is horrified that we give Córdoba only four hours. She insists that we go back for at least a full day. We promise ourselves, and her, to return.
Election Day
Our first night in Sevilla, Cristina, our host mom, launchs immediately into the state of the world. We frantically sift through her words, picking out the ones we know. We share sympathies for the state of the global economy. She says that it is as bad as 1939.
Supper, several days later. I lose the word for envelope. She points to one on a side table for clarification. It is the envelope that contains her ballot for the upcoming provencial elections on Sunday, June 7th.
We venture out on Sunday, comfortable in our sneakers (dress is more casual on Sundays), uncertain about the culture of election day in Sevilla. It is quiet, slowly awakening after the customary extended Saturday night social life.
Evening falls on our wandering, and we make our way home. We pass through Plaza Nueva. The ayuntamiento, the town hall, anchors the east side of the plaza. It is festooned with greenery. Media cameras hover as a crowd fills in. Ah, we think. Election results! We continue toward the Catedral, following the trail of people. Ah, we think. It is an election parade! We stop when we hear the band, marching slowly, emphatically, sans Sousa, along the parade route. I think of the Alamo, a small chill of understanding surrounds each pounding of the drums. We stand, transfixed by the ponderous music. As the band passes in front of us, the spell breaks. Band members wave and smile at friends and family as they wait for the next note.
We continue on and find ourselves swallowed by the crowd, swimming upstream. Slowly,we find a sidestream that appears less congested and escape. It is not an election parade; it is another saint; it is La Esperanza de Triana.
From Antonio Pizarro, El Diario de Sevilla.
At lunch on Monday, we ask Cristina about the election results. She says that the party leaning to the right won, no triumph in her voice.
Supper, several days later. I lose the word for envelope. She points to one on a side table for clarification. It is the envelope that contains her ballot for the upcoming provencial elections on Sunday, June 7th.
We venture out on Sunday, comfortable in our sneakers (dress is more casual on Sundays), uncertain about the culture of election day in Sevilla. It is quiet, slowly awakening after the customary extended Saturday night social life.
Evening falls on our wandering, and we make our way home. We pass through Plaza Nueva. The ayuntamiento, the town hall, anchors the east side of the plaza. It is festooned with greenery. Media cameras hover as a crowd fills in. Ah, we think. Election results! We continue toward the Catedral, following the trail of people. Ah, we think. It is an election parade! We stop when we hear the band, marching slowly, emphatically, sans Sousa, along the parade route. I think of the Alamo, a small chill of understanding surrounds each pounding of the drums. We stand, transfixed by the ponderous music. As the band passes in front of us, the spell breaks. Band members wave and smile at friends and family as they wait for the next note.
We continue on and find ourselves swallowed by the crowd, swimming upstream. Slowly,we find a sidestream that appears less congested and escape. It is not an election parade; it is another saint; it is La Esperanza de Triana.
From Antonio Pizarro, El Diario de Sevilla.
At lunch on Monday, we ask Cristina about the election results. She says that the party leaning to the right won, no triumph in her voice.
1492, or As The Inflatable World Turns
1492. Another date imprinted in memory. The cadenced mnemonic about Columbus flashes in recall. The known world expands to the unknown world. Las indias! 1492. The Spanish world contracts, hardens, expelling the Moors and the Jews from Spain, consolidating errant kingdoms and languages under Isabella and Ferdinand; a superpower is born.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Plaza de Toros
It is Friday afternoon, and the Archivo de Indias (the archive of Spain´s interactions with the Americas) closes before we arrive. Dregs of time remain for the Catedral and Alcazar hours. So, to the Plaza de Toros.
It is Friday afternoon but there will be no death this day. The corrida de toros is Sunday evening. We visit, images of what we see on television still fresh, of toreros in failed paso doble agony.
This day, it is quiet, small in size and in the emptiness of the 14,000 seats.
The ring is swept clean, replendent in the yellow sand and brilliant red paint, the colors of Sevilla. On Sunday, through gates now closed, there will be an explosion of people, toreros, picadores, banderilleros, horses and bulls.
In the quiet we walk past stables, rooms where toreros dress and chapel where they pray before entering the ring. Paintings and displays in the small museum trace the early development of the corrida from games similar to tournaments to the present day spectacle.
High on the wall, the heads of famous bulls project from the wall. We see ears! They are the mothers of bulls who have killed toreros, killed, we are told, to keep from producing such dangerous offspring again. It is interesting that temperament of the bulls is assigned to the female.
Sealed in display cases, the costumes justify their high price. Gold trim and intricate surface design create dress appropriate for this ultimate dance of death.
How different it all will be on a Sunday evening.
It is Friday afternoon but there will be no death this day. The corrida de toros is Sunday evening. We visit, images of what we see on television still fresh, of toreros in failed paso doble agony.
This day, it is quiet, small in size and in the emptiness of the 14,000 seats.
The ring is swept clean, replendent in the yellow sand and brilliant red paint, the colors of Sevilla. On Sunday, through gates now closed, there will be an explosion of people, toreros, picadores, banderilleros, horses and bulls.
In the quiet we walk past stables, rooms where toreros dress and chapel where they pray before entering the ring. Paintings and displays in the small museum trace the early development of the corrida from games similar to tournaments to the present day spectacle.
High on the wall, the heads of famous bulls project from the wall. We see ears! They are the mothers of bulls who have killed toreros, killed, we are told, to keep from producing such dangerous offspring again. It is interesting that temperament of the bulls is assigned to the female.
Sealed in display cases, the costumes justify their high price. Gold trim and intricate surface design create dress appropriate for this ultimate dance of death.
How different it all will be on a Sunday evening.
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