Modern Art in Madrid: The Charms of the Reina Sofia

Modern Art in Madrid: The Charms of the Reina Sofia

During my recent trip to Spain, I visited several major art collections in Madrid. Among these The Prado, or rather its new exhibition on the work of Hieronymus Bosch, I will be writing about for another publication. In the present essay however, I intend to touch upon why the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia has to be one of the most pleasant, civilized museums I have visited in quite some time. Should you find yourself in Madrid, the Reina Sofia is most definitely worth your time.

Architecturally speaking, the museum is a genuine pleasure to visit: a peaceful, spacious venue in which to quietly examine some major pieces of 20th century art. True, in front of some of the star works on display – Salvador Dalí’s Girl At A Window” (1925) for example – there was some significant crowding. However the cool, white galleries of the former 18thcentury hospital, which are connected by a cloister-like atrium, never feels claustrophobic or jumbled together. The objects are displayed at a reasonable distance from each other, allowing the visitor to circulate easily through galleries that are both self-contained and yet interconnected in a logical sequence.

The 2nd Floor of the Reina Sofia is a sort of encyclopedia of early to mid-20th century Spanish art, augmented here and there by representative examples of the works of non-Spanish artists. Because so many different artistic movements were afoot at roughly the same time, the idea of sticking to a strictly chronological order would have make little sense here. So even though there was a bit of jumping about on the timeline, the curators have nevertheless managed to create a kind of consistent, moving tableaux that tracks the development of Modern Art in Spain.

There are certainly major pieces of international renown in the collection, which require at least a look-see in order to tick the proverbial box. Going to the Reina Sofia without seeing “Guernica”, for example (a painting which admittedly I have never thought much of), is a bit like going to The Art Institute of Chicago and not seeing Georges Seurat’s “La Grande Jatte”. More interesting to me, frankly, are Picasso’s preparatory drawings and studies for the completed work.

However, what really brought my inner nerd joy was seeing old friends, and making new ones. On one wall hung a well-known genre scene by Ramon Casas, showing a young married couple enjoying the sun on the terrace of their newly-built apartment in the Eixample.  On another was an early Joan Miró landscape painting featuring a country house, with the strange, squiggly characters that later came to dominate his work on a monumental scale only just beginning to take shape. Here, too was one of Isidre Nonell’s arresting portraits of a gypsy from the streets, featuring the painter’s distinctively heavy, cross-hatching painting technique. And even with these old familiars, there were new-to-me works, by artists who deserve further study and appreciation.

In Couple On The Beach” (1922) for example, the Catalan artist Josep de Togores created an attractive image of two lovers, and indeed their primordial relationship with the Mediterranean from which they and their culture arose. It is fully expressive of the contemporary Noucentista movement in Catalan art and architecture, which called for the rejection of excessive decoration and fantasy  espoused by the previous generation, in favor of a return to simpler, solid forms inspired by Ancient Greek and Roman art and architecture. At the same time, in both its unusual composition and angularity, the painting recalls the beginnings of the Art Deco period.

In Togores’ work we see two figures entwined on a Mediterranean beach, their location indicated only by the sandy-colored foreground and strip of blue background for the sea. The eye is immediately drawn toward to the flesh of two people who clearly enjoy spending time outside. Prior to this period, having a suntan was associated with being a member of the laboring classes. With the dawn of the Jazz Age, the complicated coiffures, full beards, and deathly pallor that had been the aesthetic ideals of both the Victorians and Edwardians were replaced with bobbed hair, clean-shaven cheeks, and sun worship. From the standpoint of social anthropology, one could argue that Togores could not have painted this picture five years earlier.

It also bears noting that, despite the fact that these two figures are nude, this is an incredibly modest picture. Throughout much of its art history before the 20th century, few nudes of any note were painted in Spain, partly as a result of the Spanish Inquisition, and partly as a result of the rather upright and dignified Spanish character. Paradoxically, enormous paintings full of fleshy deities by Dutch and Italian artists such as Rubens and Titian had been collected and admired in Spain for many centuries. Thus, while a different European artist painting in the 1920’s might have felt free to create a more explicit image, here Togores evokes the sensuality of these nude lovers on the beach, in a way that does not come across as either graphic or gratuitous.    

In a completely different vein, the massive canvas Christ of the Blood” (1911) by the Basque painter Ignacio Zuloaga (1870-1945) deserves to be better known outside of Spain. Unlike Togores’ painting, this is not a pretty picture, but it is certainly an arresting one. The Corpus is a sickly thing, reminiscent of the work of late Medieval painters who focused on the more unpleasant, visceral aspects of Christ’s execution. Indeed, like in Matthias Grünewald’s work, here the cross is placed quite close to the ground, rather than as is usually the case, where the Crucified is raised high above the heads of the onlookers.

What really struck me when examining the picture was how much it seems to have in common with Salvador Dalí’s famous The Sacrament of the Last Supper” (1955) in the National Gallery of Art here in Washington.

For a start, the very heavy drapery of the kneeling figures in both paintings are related, at least conceptually. Both appear to be referencing much earlier works by Tenebrist painters such as Caravaggio and Zurbarán, particularly the latter’s series of portraits of Cistercian monks. Both also reference events that took place in the Bible in a contemporary, non-historical context, and in a different geographic location. The city in Zuloaga’s painting may remind us of the walled city of Jerusalem, but architecturally it bears a far greater resemblance to Castilian cities like Ávila or Toledo. Similarly in Dalí’s painting, the large windows of the dissolving room reveal that this scene is taking place not in the Cenacle, but rather somewhere along the rocky beaches of the Costa Brava in Catalonia. Thus both of these pictures are set, not in 1st century Judea, but rather in 20th century Spain.

Both paintings also give us clues that they are not attempting to portray events as described in Scripture, but rather the ongoing spiritual significance of those events for the contemporary Christian. Several of the figures in the Zuloaga painting for example, are shown carrying giant tapers, such as those commonly used in the famous Holy Week processions throughout Spain. This tells us that they have come to the foot of the Cross on a Good Friday pilgrimage, and that they represent the ordinary people of Spain, rather than Biblical personages such as Nicodemus or Joseph of Arimathea. In the same way, the men gathered around the table in Dalí’s painting are not supposed to represent the Twelve Apostles, even though there are twelve of them. Rather, they are commemorating the institution of the Eucharist on Holy Thursday, and the semi-transparent figure of the Resurrected Christ appears as an evocation of the Catholic belief in the Real Presence of Jesus in the bread and wine of the Eucharist.  

There is one significant difference to point out between the two, however, and that is in the way that each artist treats the human form. For Dalí, the figures are part of, but ultimately secondary to, the presence of Christ in the picture: His is the lone face we see clearly, while the rest are all matched pairs of idealized figures, rather than individuals. Zuloaga’s treatment of the figures in his painting on the other hand, is something else entirely. Here, the face of Jesus is hidden, and the people in the picture are all individuals, because each of them brings a different, personal perspective to meditating on Christ’s Passion.

Moreover in Zuloaga’s work, it is clear that these men are both the genetic and artistic descendants of those who appear in paintings of ordinary Spaniards throughout centuries of art, such as in Velázquez’ The Drunkards”. These figures are types, drawn though they may be from real life models in the artist’s studio, and they recur throughout Spanish art, literature, and drama. Perhaps of all the works I paused to reflect on at the Reina Sofia during this visit, this one seemed most in keeping with the long legacy of great Spanish art, particularly when it comes to the kind of humble piety and personal dignity even in poverty which, historically, was seen as definitive of the Spanish character.

These kinds of “discoveries” are what keep me coming back to museums like the Reina Sofia. Most of these institutions possess far more art than they can possibly display at once, or that the visitor can hope to appreciate in a single visit. Between the rotation of these works in the collection, and the exploring of different areas of the building on subsequent visits, the visitor to a truly great museum such as this always has the chance of coming across something new, interesting, and unexpected. While I may not like everything in its collection, in its important core holdings, interesting secondary works, and elegantly simple interior spaces, it is truly one of the world’s great centers for the study and appreciation of art.


The Author, in front of "Christ of the Blood"

The Write Stuff: On Bosch, Travel, and Virtual Ink

Having been warned by the museum itself to do so in advance, I recently purchased my tickets for the opening of The Prado’s upcoming show, “Bosch: The Fifth Centenary Exhibition”. From the website:

To mark the 500th anniversary of the death of Hieronymus Bosch, the Prado is holding the most comprehensive exhibition ever organised on this Dutch artist. In addition to the works by the artist in the Museum’s collection the exhibition includes exceptional loans, among them The Triptych of the Temptations of Saint Anthony from the Museo de Arte Antiga in Lisbon, as well as paintings lent by leading institutions such as the Albertina and the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, the National Gallery, Washington, the Musée du Louvre, Paris, and the Polo Museale del Veneto, Venice.

It is a given that if you ever happen to find yourself in Madrid, as I will be at the end of this month, you must go to The Prado. Even though I would have gone anyway, their hosting a major retrospective on one of my favorite artists is a significant bonus. Naturally, I plan to write a review of the exhibition for publication, but the question of what else, if anything, I will be publishing during my time in Spain remains a bit up in the air.

Part of the joy of going away on vacation is that you vacate the premises, physically and mentally. Home and the workplace are left behind for a period of time, so that you can have new experiences, clear your head a bit, and allow amorphous ideas the opportunity to begin taking shape. For me, having time off can be a period of welcome inactivity, but it can also be an opportunity for more scribbling – something which I have less time to do now than previously. It amazes me that for so many years I was able to churn out a blog post of 1,000 words or more, five days a week; I certainly couldn’t do that now.

At this point I don’t want to make any promises. Perhaps I will do a travelogue of each day’s adventures, or perhaps you will hardly hear a peep out of me, other than the de rigueur Instagramming of meals and cocktails. More likely the result will be somewhere in between.

Watch this space, gentle reader.


Bosch's accurate prediction of the horrors of air travel in the 21st century

The Change In Spain: Adiós Siesta, Hola Greenwich Mean Time

News broke over the weekend that Spanish Prime Minister Mariano Rajoy has proposed two fundamental legal changes which would have a profound impact on daily life in his country, both for residents and visitors: the elimination of the siesta, that long afternoon break which Spaniards traditionally take between lunchtime and late afternoon, and the changing of time in peninsular Spain from Central European Time to Greenwich Mean Time. At present, the combination of these two factors produces some rather bizarre results, such as the sun not actually being at its highest point in the sky at noon. However the passage of such sweeping changes will not only have a significant ripple effect in other aspects of Spanish life, but one wonders whether it will fundamentally change the character of the country.

If you have visited Spain, you know that the siesta seems, at first, to be a great idea, but as the days roll by you become sick of it. The first time I can recall feeling deeply annoyed by the siesta was around twenty years ago. My brothers and I were sitting on the front steps of the Basilica of Santa Maria del Mar, the most beautiful church in Barcelona, waiting to get inside. The scheduled reopening was 4:30 pm, but whoever was in charge had apparently decided that the posted time was more of a suggestion than a promise. As we sat there for over half an hour wondering why it was taking so long to unlock the doors, and watching other waiting tourists throw in the towel and leave, it occurred to me that not only was the practice of the siesta an outmoded custom, but it was holding Spain back from taking full advantage of its potential.

The siesta has its origins in the relationship between climate and economics, and while the Spanish version of the practice has become the most famous, other countries such as Greece and Italy have practiced their own versions for centuries. Generally speaking Spain is a hot country, and when there was a largely agricultural-based economy, farm workers simply could not toil for hours in the blazing afternoon sun, or they would drop like flies. Later as the Industrial Revolution arrived, factory workers, too, could not work in the hellish conditions of a factory floor all day, prior to the invention of modern cooling methods. Taking a break during the hottest time of the day, in order to allow the temperatures to cool down, meant in theory that Spanish workers could return to work into the evening, refreshed and revived.

Today however, there seems to be little practical necessity for art galleries or banks or shoe stores to grind to a halt in the middle of the workday. How many tourists over the years have given up on shops or sights in Spain, because even though they were ready, willing, and able to plunk down their hard-earned holiday money, merchants and custodians were too busy taking a long lunch/nap to engage in commerce? Even in comparatively more business-friendly Catalonia, where the siesta has never been quite as important as elsewhere, the notion that I have to sit around downtown Barcelona, waiting for a shop to roll up its metal door, long after I have had my lunch, seems utterly arcane.

Regarding the proposed change of Spain’s time zone, I must confess that I was completely unaware that the setting of the continental Spanish clock to that of Central Europe was of comparatively recent invention, dating from the Franco era. Prior to the Civil War of 1936-1939, Madrid had been in the same time zone as London. As a child I always wondered why it was that London time was an hour behind Madrid, given that when you look at the two cities on a map Madrid actually lies further west in the Atlantic. Granted, the cartographers among you could explain all of the political and geographic reasons as to why there can be such exceptions, but as an exercise in logic, this change seems to be a no-brainer.

There are also certain practical advantages that one can see, beyond the logical ones, of shifting the time zone in Spain. Even with the advent of 24-hour markets, I imagine that there must be benefits to investors and to the Spanish economy, if trading times for both the London and Madrid stock exchanges were to be aligned. If the Bolsa were to remain open one hour longer than say, EuroNext, would American and Asian investors find it more appealing? My finance readers will please correct me if I’m wrong on this, of course.

And then there are all the Brits living in Spain – in fact, there are quite a lot of them, as southern Spain has become the Florida of Great Britain. Current estimates of the British ex-pat population based permanently in Spain are around one million people, and a huge percentage of those are retirees. In addition, approximately 14 million Britons visit Spain every year for business or pleasure, more than from any other country, with a significant portion of that number made up of those who have second homes in Spain. As flights from Britain to just about anywhere in Spain – flying time from London to Barcelona is an hour shorter than that of New York to Miami – are short to begin with, eliminating jet lag by eliminating the time difference between the UK and Spain could, I imagine, make the journey just that little bit more appealing.

All that being said, I wonder about other things that may fall by the wayside, as a consequence of Spain redefining the experience of being Spanish. For example, what will happen to the wonderful “Menú del Día”, the three-course menu at a reasonable set-price which, under Spanish law, must be offered in licensed restaurants at lunchtime on weekdays? If there are to be no more two- or three-hour lunches, will anyone other than tourists have the time to actually take advantage of such an offering? This seems particularly ironic, given that these multi-course affairs were originally created in order to help Spanish workers who could not get home for the siesta, and who will now not have the time necessary to eat them.

And then there’s Spain’s famous nightlife, with people in cities like Madrid emerging like vampires – albeit ones with skintans – to go out to trendy restaurants that do not even open for dinner until midnight, or hitting clubs that only start to get going until the early hours of the morning. Even if you are not going out for the evening, Prime Time TV viewing in Spain only starts around 10 pm, and runs until around 2am. Will these things, too, fall by the wayside, as people rest less and work more during daylight hours?

In about a month and a half, I’ll be in Barcelona and Madrid on vacation. There will still be the siesta, and the time will still be 6 hours ahead of the East Coast. However it’s entirely possible that I’ll be witnessing the final days of things which have been part of the culture for so long, that it’s hard to imagine what things in Spain will be like without them.


Siesta by John Singer Sargent (1905)