Gallery of Contemporary Art

Over a 1000 works of art including 100 Picasso prints of the famous "Suite Vollard." A collection of Grandfather clocks (80), tapestries, walking sticks, antique bureaux, furniture...

Jose Estevez believed in mixing the old and the new. I think I've told you this, but hey, that was so long ago, you won't mind a snippet of repetition. Old and new in the making of the sherry, old and new in the mix of art and old furniture and with the horses, old and new traditions.

Loved a painting, a red circle and two girls looking at each other. They could have been the same person looking at a different aspect of herself. Very striking. And a massive canvas on the large balcony area that was layered and layered and used collage.

And back downstairs, and because we were only four, Mr. Garcia took us into a side room and brought over bottles of sherries to sample. He said we could have try as much and many as we wanted. He brought over a bowl of olives so it didn't go to our heads having empty stomachs. And he told me about the Estevez family. And then the shop. As I was travelling with only hand luggage on the plane, I couldn't buy a bottle bigger than 10ml, so bought a pack of five and decided we'd have our own sherry tasting back home. Had to chuck out some of my toiletries and the packaging to put them in my designated plastic bag for customs, but they fitted. Just. And the bottles were plastic, so no worries there. Cost 15 Euros and 15 Euros for the tour. Definitely worth it. I'd recommend the private tour rather than a main one. Same price, but we had a fantastic time. And Mr. Garcia took his time. So, so glad I went.

And now. To head into Jerez de la Frontera. The town.

Cordoba Art Galleries

Umbrella up, strolling past more closed churches, beautiful, but closed to the Protestant, went stone, tiled saints in search of the Museums of Fine-arts and Julio Romero de Torres Museum. Do look him up and look at his paintings of tragically sad but stunningly beautiful and erotic images of the Andalucian woman. She is of another time, another place to a girl from Yorkshire, but she pulls you in.

Now the museum. Places are on the map here, they look easy to find, but they seem to lose themselves in the maze of streets. Eventually arrived, crossing a major road which I did not expect and the museums were not there. They should have been. I strolled towards another ancient, decaying church and there was the sign. "The Museums of Fine-arts and Julio Romero de Torres Museum." At the bottom of the square, more work going on, the fountain, wetter in the rain, a small, gift filled shop opposite.
I went in. The museum shop was closed, the man at the entrance kiosk let me in. No cost. I entered the inner square, bushes and trees perfectly clipped. Dark green in the rain. First, on the right, was the Julio Romero house and gallery. A guard sat with his eyes closed, listening to his i-pod. A room to the right looked like the artist's living room. The paintings upstairs were of twenties Spain and its men and women. I studied their dresses for Tessa's family in Jerez in Leaving Coty. Long straight dresses, three quarter length sleeves, belts, hair in low buns, low heels, the heat of the sun on their skin.
Simple with sheened stockings captured in paint.

And names. Rafael, Horacio, Manuel, Joaquin, Flex and Cristobal.
And the women, Concepcio, Maria, Rosarill, Ysolina, Benedicion, Rafaela, Nine, Eva, Amalia, Mari Liuz, Ines.

And one other couple.

Across the courtyard is the other art gallery. I put my umbrella in the compartments in the entrance. Guards strolling, talking.

Lots of religious work, but the most stunning are the sculptures. Fabulous. I loved that the galleries are so small, little houses housing art.

Then up to the Place de la Correda to see if there was a market. No, just a vast open space that will hold markets and events and used to be the bull ring. People live in the apartments looking down onto the square. This was unexpected in its size and the colour, green and red. It felt like communist Spain, it felt edgy, dodgy, not pretty, but passionate with an edge of danger. In sunshine it would be transformed with food and voices and music. But not today. Today it was raining.

I wanted to find a church open today. Not even the local St. Basil's would let me in. I'm thinking of writing a letter about this problem.

It transforms the way we look at the world.

"It transforms the way we look at the world." This is what the presenter said about Van Gogh's paintings. After looking at them we will look at trees, the sky, our surroundings, the world differently.
Works for me. Makes me want to look at his paintings. If something we see or something we read or hear someone say, a few words, a few lyrics, the sound of a cello or a guitar or drum or voice, an image, a mix of colours, something suggested that we recognise but have never thought of expressing in such a way, isn't that what we all want? To look at the world and see the same scene differently from the day before?
I love watching films again and again and seeing something different each time, reading books for the same reason, hearing music, looking at a photograph or a painting. Seeing something different.
And transforming the way we look at the world implies that change is within. We change. Almost makes me cry, not because I don't like the way I see things now, but at the possibilites of seeing more. This is in danger of sounding a tad pretentious. A tad? I just want to see more. Simple. If looking at Van Gogh's paintings helps with this, then fab. I'm going.
And it's meant to be anyway, as a friend from university suggested when our 'three' meet up in London, it's ususally London as it's the easiest, then we should go to The Royal Academy and see the Van Gogh exhibition. So there's two connections there. Plus, I love the song "Vincent - Starry, starry, night" (I'm a sucker for songs like this) so for me, that's reason number three. Got to go. Oh and my youngest daughter did a wonderful portrait of him when she was in year one or two, bloody ear prominent. There for all to see in the gallery on our kitchen dining area wall. Properly framed as well.

The exhibition also shows Vincent's letters to his brother Theo explaining what he was doing, sketches included, to warrant the funding he received. They sound very different. I wonder if they really were. Elder and younger, businessman and artist, sane and insane. It's funny, well not funny, but, no, it is funny when you think about which one you'd rather be. The reality of living it and looking back at the work. Don't really want to think about the reality.
That's something else I read about the moments of looking on beauty, experiencing breathing in fresh air on a spring morning, say, for example, being worth the rest of the day being terrible. That's changing the sentiment into my words, but is a moment of happiness worth hours of misery?