Friday, June 19, 2009
An Unlikely Oasis
I enter the small tiled street on my way home for comida (lunch). My clothes stick to me in the heat. And then, cool air envelopes me, soothing away Sevilla´s calor, a small oasis found on our daily walks. Today, there is more. A window is open overhead. An aria flows down the plastered walls, it´s origin unknown. I chastise myself for not knowing and then stop. For today, it is enough for the notes to follow me along the street, sprinkling themselves among the sweet, high voices of children going home for siesta.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Munro Leaf and Ernest Hemingway: A Romance
Leaf and Hemingway are bedfellows, not in the carnal sense, obviously, but in the literary sense. They both romanticized the bullfight, one as a child´s tale of marching to a different drummer: the other as a glorification of manhood. Oversimplication, of course, but interesting reads.
For those who know me, it will come as no surprise that Ferdinand the Bull was one of my favorite books as a child. Wonderful illustrations and a great story about pacifism, personal identity and last, but never least, reading! A keeper that still sits on my bookshelf.
I came much more slowly to Hemingway, to Death in the Afternoon. That also should come as no surprise to those who know me. Steeped in the feminism and pacifism of the 60´s and 70´s, I put off reading anything Hemingway until adulthood. Words, images, a travelogue of places I longed to see.
Growing up in South Texas, bullfights were literally in my backyard, the Reynosa bullring barely 20 miles away. I never attended. I waited until now to attend a bullfight, somehow the thing to do when visiting Spain.
And seeing a corrida on a scorchingly hot afternoon in Sevilla, I think that both Munro Leaf and Ernest Hemingway, somehow, both told the story.
Paradoxes abound. In this bloodletting sport, the Cruz Roja (Spanish Red Cross) rents seat cushions to spectators who must sit on hard, sunbaked brick seats for two hours. It is a fundraiser. The disposal of the bulls includes selling the meat, proceeds from which go to charity. Toreros (matadors, creators of death as I knew them growing up) reap fame and fortune in 15 minutes that can end brutally. Finca (hacienda) owners protect their stock of fighting bulls from human contact to prevent the ¨Ferdinand¨effect. It is about bloodsport and artistry of motion. It is about cultural identity.
Travel is about revelations. On this afternoon in June, in Sevilla, I discover a need to read both Leaf and Hemingway again. I also know that I will not see a corrida again.
For those who know me, it will come as no surprise that Ferdinand the Bull was one of my favorite books as a child. Wonderful illustrations and a great story about pacifism, personal identity and last, but never least, reading! A keeper that still sits on my bookshelf.
I came much more slowly to Hemingway, to Death in the Afternoon. That also should come as no surprise to those who know me. Steeped in the feminism and pacifism of the 60´s and 70´s, I put off reading anything Hemingway until adulthood. Words, images, a travelogue of places I longed to see.
Growing up in South Texas, bullfights were literally in my backyard, the Reynosa bullring barely 20 miles away. I never attended. I waited until now to attend a bullfight, somehow the thing to do when visiting Spain.
And seeing a corrida on a scorchingly hot afternoon in Sevilla, I think that both Munro Leaf and Ernest Hemingway, somehow, both told the story.
Paradoxes abound. In this bloodletting sport, the Cruz Roja (Spanish Red Cross) rents seat cushions to spectators who must sit on hard, sunbaked brick seats for two hours. It is a fundraiser. The disposal of the bulls includes selling the meat, proceeds from which go to charity. Toreros (matadors, creators of death as I knew them growing up) reap fame and fortune in 15 minutes that can end brutally. Finca (hacienda) owners protect their stock of fighting bulls from human contact to prevent the ¨Ferdinand¨effect. It is about bloodsport and artistry of motion. It is about cultural identity.
Travel is about revelations. On this afternoon in June, in Sevilla, I discover a need to read both Leaf and Hemingway again. I also know that I will not see a corrida again.
Corpus Christi - Feasts and Family
Cristina´s older brother (75 years old) is here for Corpus Christi. She says that he, Pépe, only comes to visit for the big stuff--Navidad, Semana Santa, Feria Abril, and Corpus Christi. It is perhaps the ultimate of the Christian feast days, the celebration of the gift of the Eucharist, the Blessed Sacrement by Jesus Christ. Big stuff, indeed!
In Sevilla, Corpus Christi is a labor intensive event. The hermandades, brotherhoods that once served as local peacekeepers in medival times and now as social services arms of the local parishs, work through the previous day and night to prepare los pasos. Los pasos are elaborately decorated, hand-carried floats that display icons of saints and virgins pertinent to Sevilla, El Niño, the Baby Jesus, and most importantly, the Host.
Early on the day of the procession, the streets of the route are strewn with rosemary. People gather to get favorable positions, with single rows of reserved chairs for the hermandades use lining the tiny streets. Stores along the route create magnificent window displays, enshrining statues of the saints, virgins and El Niño in flowers, lace and gilded ornamentation.
It starts and ends at the Catedral. The pasos, members of the hermandades who carry their emblematic banners and staffs, and the marching band component of the local guard begin the 2+ hour event. In current times, women and children are included in the hermandades. Some staffs are long candles and provide fun and distraction for the children who walk, tipping out the accumulated melted wax or lighting the branches of rosemary readily available at their feet. The scent of hot wax and incensed rosemary drifts with the procession.
The pasos are the primary focus. People rise and stand quietly as they pass. Massive, heavy, unwieldy moveable altars, they are conveyed by as many as 16 people who carry them atop their shoulders. Guides pilot the pasos through the narrow streets, serving as the eyes for the carriers who are hidden from view by heavy drapes of velvet, brocades, and other rich fabrics. We see only their feet, clad in customary white. Coordination of their steps is paramount in keeping the paso moving and, more importantly, upright.
For rest stops, they carefully lower the paso to stand on its own legs, reversing the process when they resume. Handlers signal starts and stops with heavy "doorknockers" mounted on top. Some pasos have a mesh band at eye level that allows carriers to see out and to get air; others move blindly.
The carriers pay for the honor to carry the pasos, usually as penance. The cost is high; forgiveness is rarely cheap.
Ranks of clergy usher the Host paso as it passes slowly and solemnly through the street swollen with onlookers. Military emphatically brings up the rear. Not an unlikely pair of bookends, history often shows. The procession comes full circle back to the Catedral. The crowd melts away into the cafés and bars as the street crew sweeps up the rosemary and sprinkles sand over the dripped wax.
At home, Pépe has already been at siesta for a while. Cristina wakes him, and he joins us for lunch. He wears crisply ironed pajamas. Cristina pesters Pépe, as a little sister does, when W hops up to help clear the table. She is impressed that W actually helps with chores. Pépe gamely hops up with a plate in his hand. Cristina laughs.
The next morning we leave at our usual hour, Cristina and Pépe still asleep in the morning cool. At lunch, he is gone, home until the next fiesta.
In Sevilla, Corpus Christi is a labor intensive event. The hermandades, brotherhoods that once served as local peacekeepers in medival times and now as social services arms of the local parishs, work through the previous day and night to prepare los pasos. Los pasos are elaborately decorated, hand-carried floats that display icons of saints and virgins pertinent to Sevilla, El Niño, the Baby Jesus, and most importantly, the Host.
Early on the day of the procession, the streets of the route are strewn with rosemary. People gather to get favorable positions, with single rows of reserved chairs for the hermandades use lining the tiny streets. Stores along the route create magnificent window displays, enshrining statues of the saints, virgins and El Niño in flowers, lace and gilded ornamentation.
It starts and ends at the Catedral. The pasos, members of the hermandades who carry their emblematic banners and staffs, and the marching band component of the local guard begin the 2+ hour event. In current times, women and children are included in the hermandades. Some staffs are long candles and provide fun and distraction for the children who walk, tipping out the accumulated melted wax or lighting the branches of rosemary readily available at their feet. The scent of hot wax and incensed rosemary drifts with the procession.
The pasos are the primary focus. People rise and stand quietly as they pass. Massive, heavy, unwieldy moveable altars, they are conveyed by as many as 16 people who carry them atop their shoulders. Guides pilot the pasos through the narrow streets, serving as the eyes for the carriers who are hidden from view by heavy drapes of velvet, brocades, and other rich fabrics. We see only their feet, clad in customary white. Coordination of their steps is paramount in keeping the paso moving and, more importantly, upright.
For rest stops, they carefully lower the paso to stand on its own legs, reversing the process when they resume. Handlers signal starts and stops with heavy "doorknockers" mounted on top. Some pasos have a mesh band at eye level that allows carriers to see out and to get air; others move blindly.
The carriers pay for the honor to carry the pasos, usually as penance. The cost is high; forgiveness is rarely cheap.
Ranks of clergy usher the Host paso as it passes slowly and solemnly through the street swollen with onlookers. Military emphatically brings up the rear. Not an unlikely pair of bookends, history often shows. The procession comes full circle back to the Catedral. The crowd melts away into the cafés and bars as the street crew sweeps up the rosemary and sprinkles sand over the dripped wax.
At home, Pépe has already been at siesta for a while. Cristina wakes him, and he joins us for lunch. He wears crisply ironed pajamas. Cristina pesters Pépe, as a little sister does, when W hops up to help clear the table. She is impressed that W actually helps with chores. Pépe gamely hops up with a plate in his hand. Cristina laughs.
The next morning we leave at our usual hour, Cristina and Pépe still asleep in the morning cool. At lunch, he is gone, home until the next fiesta.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Gothically Speaking
Constructing monumental buildings takes time--procuring materials, placing those materials in ways and places that defy gravity, and incredibly, using those materials to create magnificent works of art. There is no 1% for art in Gothic cathedral construction. Two hours is an insultingly small amount of time for visiting the largest Gothic cathedral in the world and the third largest cathedral in the world. We are pressed for time.
This time, the mosque is razed, save for the minaret transformed into the bell tower, the Giralda. Flying buttresses arch overhead, vaulted ceilings rise to the heavens, stained glass tints sparse natural light, and carved and gilded altars glorify God, Jesus, saints, and a few presumptive nobles. Enormous columns march solemnly in rows, bearing the weight and sinking under it. One very large statics problem.
Private chapels ring the interior, tombs attesting to the regional power of this church, still in use. Parishoners bundle flowers before the main
Columbus lies at rest here, or at least, a part of him does. His remains make several more voyages before coming to rest in Sevilla. The bones in this tomb are his, genetic testing says this is so. It is simply that not all of the bones are here. Claims to his final resting place abound in the Americas--Dominican Republic, Cuba, and others. Billy the Kid or Jesse James intrigue on a larger scale.
Art to the glory of God fills the Catedral. Intricate carvings and magnificent paintings testify to past largesse while gathered dust affirm declining Church attendance and support. A Goya, recently cleaned, pays homage to the patron saints of Sevilla, Santa Justa and Santa Rufina. Like the painting of the sainted sisters, another, of the crucified Christ, stands in contrast to other paintings nearby, Goya´s brushwork introducing an earthliness to the rendered figures.
And last, the challenge of the Giralda, iconic symbol of Sevilla. We benefit from ancient engineers and architects who lay ramps instead of stairs. Each landing offers a view in one direction. At the top, the robust panorama of rooftops stretches outward, striking in contrast to 1920 photographs of a dustier, poorer city as seen from the same vantage points.
Our time is up. The Catedral is closing. A guard, working sweep, shoos us down the ramp. We vow to return, to mass, to hear the twin pipe organs perhaps.
This time, the mosque is razed, save for the minaret transformed into the bell tower, the Giralda. Flying buttresses arch overhead, vaulted ceilings rise to the heavens, stained glass tints sparse natural light, and carved and gilded altars glorify God, Jesus, saints, and a few presumptive nobles. Enormous columns march solemnly in rows, bearing the weight and sinking under it. One very large statics problem.
Private chapels ring the interior, tombs attesting to the regional power of this church, still in use. Parishoners bundle flowers before the main
Columbus lies at rest here, or at least, a part of him does. His remains make several more voyages before coming to rest in Sevilla. The bones in this tomb are his, genetic testing says this is so. It is simply that not all of the bones are here. Claims to his final resting place abound in the Americas--Dominican Republic, Cuba, and others. Billy the Kid or Jesse James intrigue on a larger scale.
Art to the glory of God fills the Catedral. Intricate carvings and magnificent paintings testify to past largesse while gathered dust affirm declining Church attendance and support. A Goya, recently cleaned, pays homage to the patron saints of Sevilla, Santa Justa and Santa Rufina. Like the painting of the sainted sisters, another, of the crucified Christ, stands in contrast to other paintings nearby, Goya´s brushwork introducing an earthliness to the rendered figures.
And last, the challenge of the Giralda, iconic symbol of Sevilla. We benefit from ancient engineers and architects who lay ramps instead of stairs. Each landing offers a view in one direction. At the top, the robust panorama of rooftops stretches outward, striking in contrast to 1920 photographs of a dustier, poorer city as seen from the same vantage points.
Our time is up. The Catedral is closing. A guard, working sweep, shoos us down the ramp. We vow to return, to mass, to hear the twin pipe organs perhaps.
Antiquity in Italics
Antiquities and ruins intrigue me. Not in the sense of time, though that is incredibly humbling, the continuity of human endeavor stretching back past the edge of what is conceivable. It is the mystery of what survives, the how, and more importantly to me, the why. Itálica poses these questions.
Itálica survives. Excavations reveal stone, mosaics, statues, house foundations, plumbing, the things of everyday life needed in a novus urbs (new city) of 206 BC. Its 25,000 seat coliseum, used for games and theatre, nestles against a small hill. Like a modern theatre, or a bullring, it reveals its backstage intricacies--tunnels, wings, and mysterious engraved footprints at one entrance. What did vendors sell here?
Up the hillside from the coliseum, a small Roman town reveals itself, signage interpreting the platting of the streets and the design of buildings. Foundation vents and recesses for marble walls in the foundations speak of early methods for coping with the region´s intense heat. Underground plumbing tells the engineering story of baths and fresh water taps. Lead pipes tell the human story of lower classes dying because wine is too expensive to drink.
School children populate the streets again, crowned in laurel leaves and tiaras.
Lying dormant, concealed by dirt of the centuries, amazing mosaic floors remain at Itálica. Tiny bits of glazed ceramic piece together images of sights unseen, Roman gods and goddesses and African jungle animals, including hippo, ibex, and crocodile. Excavation continues as does conservation. Floors retire from view under a fresh layer of dirt, like crops rotated seasonally.
Other odd bits of emphemera rest hidden in drawers and lockers at the archeological museum of Sevilla. Arms, heads, and of course, genitalia of Roman statues lie locked away from public view, victims of a prudish Spanish ruler. Few statues remain in situ. They, and other bits and pieces of Itálica, find their way into the buildings of Sevilla. A marble column serves as a corner bumper for a building. Millstones support weighty stone walls. Trips down small calles reveal Itálica as one grand recycling center.
Built as a retirement town for Roman soldiers, Itálica falls victim to nature. The Rio Guadalquivir meanders away, leaving the town literally high and dry. A new novus urbs grows at the base of the hill and serves as the foundation for subsequent towns, including the current Santiponce.
Itálica, built on a rock, survives as one answer to one why.
Itálica survives. Excavations reveal stone, mosaics, statues, house foundations, plumbing, the things of everyday life needed in a novus urbs (new city) of 206 BC. Its 25,000 seat coliseum, used for games and theatre, nestles against a small hill. Like a modern theatre, or a bullring, it reveals its backstage intricacies--tunnels, wings, and mysterious engraved footprints at one entrance. What did vendors sell here?
Up the hillside from the coliseum, a small Roman town reveals itself, signage interpreting the platting of the streets and the design of buildings. Foundation vents and recesses for marble walls in the foundations speak of early methods for coping with the region´s intense heat. Underground plumbing tells the engineering story of baths and fresh water taps. Lead pipes tell the human story of lower classes dying because wine is too expensive to drink.
School children populate the streets again, crowned in laurel leaves and tiaras.
Lying dormant, concealed by dirt of the centuries, amazing mosaic floors remain at Itálica. Tiny bits of glazed ceramic piece together images of sights unseen, Roman gods and goddesses and African jungle animals, including hippo, ibex, and crocodile. Excavation continues as does conservation. Floors retire from view under a fresh layer of dirt, like crops rotated seasonally.
Other odd bits of emphemera rest hidden in drawers and lockers at the archeological museum of Sevilla. Arms, heads, and of course, genitalia of Roman statues lie locked away from public view, victims of a prudish Spanish ruler. Few statues remain in situ. They, and other bits and pieces of Itálica, find their way into the buildings of Sevilla. A marble column serves as a corner bumper for a building. Millstones support weighty stone walls. Trips down small calles reveal Itálica as one grand recycling center.
Built as a retirement town for Roman soldiers, Itálica falls victim to nature. The Rio Guadalquivir meanders away, leaving the town literally high and dry. A new novus urbs grows at the base of the hill and serves as the foundation for subsequent towns, including the current Santiponce.
Itálica, built on a rock, survives as one answer to one why.
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