A system worked out in steel

Found some old lathe gouges and chisels on a vintage tool site. The steel was in fair condition, but they had what looked like old bits of broomstick for handles. A good enough reason to buy a lathe. First project, of course, was to turn lathe tool handles and make copper ferrules.  Also an excuse to play with some nice timber.

(L to R) American Red Cherry, Black Walnut, American Sycamore and Eastern Blackbutt.

Three by Ward and Payne (Sheffield) and one by Robert Sorby (Sheffield, still in business.) Around 80 to 100 years old, maybe (just maybe) as old as late 19th Century. Paul Sellers, a traditional woodworking guru, says there never was finer tool steel than on Ward and Payne tools. Quite a lot came here, because it coped with our very tough woods and their bench chisels were popular on sailing ships. I've collected a few and intend to collect a few more.

They work beautifully. The steel whispers of the souls who have used them before me.

Blighty

Briefly. Time for one of these. 

Museu Coleção Berardo

José Berardo is one of the wealthiest individuals in Portugal. He’s also known for a) being under regular investigation for dodgy financial dealings, and b) having a spectacularly large collection of modern art. 

The collection is so spectacularly large that he’s done a deal with the Portuguese government whereby the best of the collection is housed in a publicly owned, purpose-built gallery, yet he retains ownership. The finer points of this arrangement escape me, but I do know the deal expires in 2022. Meanwhile, Lisbon has one of the major modern collections in Europe.

The Berardo Collection Museum is located in Belém, a half-hour tram ride from the centre of Lisbon. There are other museums and galleries here, some of which I may visit.

The collection is one of those “grand tours” of everything from Dadaism to Pop Art. Names include Duchamp, Mondrian, Picasso, Krasner, Rothko, Pollock, Warhol, Man Ray... you get the idea. Sadly, there’s a lack of depth here. Whether that means Berardo is a collector rather than an art lover is hard to ascertain. It might be the curators trying to educate the public by taking a strictly chronological approach. It might be that after six weeks of chasing the best that Western Europe has to offer, I’m just a jaded dilettante. Or perhaps the stuff on show is a bit B-movie. Whatever the truth, not one work from the (semi) permanent collection floated my boat.

The place was eerily empty. A couple of school groups were getting long lectures in front of particular works, but otherwise, I had the place to myself. There is no seating in any of the rooms (what Fascist made that decision?) so there was no chance to enter into communion with an artist. Maybe that’s the mundane reason why I didn’t get excited.

There were several temporary exhibitions. A couple of chaps from Macao taking photography to new levels of camp, and some drawings that might be good, but are probably beyond my capacity to interpret.

And there was Miguel Palma’s (Still) Modern Discomfort, which, to prove how completely shallow are my tastes, was the highlight of the day. 

Palma’s schtick runs the whole gamut from whiz to bang. Motors, fans, sudden noises, screens, devices and machines, things hanging, things clunking, things that scare babies. Palma is the ultimate 21st Century artist, knowing that to compete with the cyber age you need the Grand Guignol without the blood but twice as sinister. Goya it ain’t, but it got my attention.

No video that I could find about the current Palma exhibition, but this might give you the idea.

Ships in the night

I get a whiff of Fremantle about this part of Lisbon. Maybe the gulls, the salt air, the promenading couples, the rows of coffee shops and people on the make. The sun sets over the sea, too.

There’s a steady parade of cruise ships. Big, big ones, lights afire like a toppled skyscraper. A new one every day. I got talking with a taxi driver about them. He said they didn’t do much for the locals. People ate on board, caught big buses, and only ventured out on organised tours. He couldn’t remember if  he’d ever had a passenger from a cruise ship.

I’m supposed to love Lisbon, but I don’t. It’s disquieting. Locals don’t look you in the eye much. Alfama foreigners are like the street dogs in Bali. Part of the scenery, but not part of the scene.

Someone sold my Amsterdam umbrella today. I plonked it in the bucket outside a little shop and within a minute, the owner’s offsider had done a deal with a passer-by who took a fancy to it. I watched it unfold out of the corner of my eye, and ran outside with an armful of bread and water trying to think of any words in Portuguese I could use to hail the woman who’d paid a Euro for my much needed shelter. I got as far as olá (hello) and  obrigado (thank you), and then I had nothing. When I raised my voice a bit, in good, angry, culturally insensitive tourist manner, it prompted the seller to go after her. I got my umbrella back, but spent the next few hours casting subliminal aspersions.

I’ve taken to inhabiting a waterfront bar. They offer local snacks and Super Bock on tap. Nobody strikes up conversation, but there’s a kind of “this family owns a bar” pageant unfolding. I’m invisible to it, which isn’t such a bad thing. There’s a barmaid vaping by the door as I write this. Most of Europe seems to be vaping. I’ll bet there’s an Apple iVaper in front of focus groups right now.

Fact is, this is a poor place, and there’s a whole lot of mutual but not equal exploitation going on. Alfama residents carve out misshapen slices of their ancient homes, and hand them over to the BnB agents. The very pleasant woman in charge of my little dungeon manages more than 20 just like it. Tourists in denial about being a tourist rent these places, enjoying the clamber up rugged stone stairs that have tortured ten thousand old women. (The men smoke so much, they never get old.)

It’s easy to sound ungracious about this. There are probably far worse places for ripping off the locals. Bali comes to mind. But the tote-bag toting Westerners who tick Lisbon off their must-go list have a whole lot more in common with the come-and-gone-in-24-hours cruise ship zombies than the family of six sleeping in one small Alfama bedroom so that people like me can pretend we’re citizens of the world.

Might be time to go home.

Coming back to you

My suitcase returned, looking very sheepish. Actually, I had to collect it from the airport, as there’s no way to get a delivery where I’m staying.

I’m in Alfama, an older part of Lisbon where everything is uphill. Vehicle traffic impossível. So I wandered down the hill and grabbed an Uber. Several hours and multiple queues (take a ticket, wait your turn) later, I lugged the prodigal one up the hill to my little apartment. The rough cobbles wouldn’t allow wheeling, so it was quite the workout. The suitcase got there in good shape, me less so.

I had a restrained first day in Lisbon. It being a Sunday, things were quiet, at least until the afternoon when the locals set up the sound system formerly owned by Billy Thorpe and The Aztecs 50mm from my front door. I was treated to several hours of P-Pop, which is the Iberian equivalent of K-pop only louder and more banal. I cowered on my lounge, turned my headphones to eleven, and listened to Leonard Cohen’s Avalanche. ”I stepped into an avalanche, it covered up my soul...”  That showed ‘em.

When I did venture out (after chaining my errant suitcase to the bathtub) it was drizzling. I managed a walk around the neighbourhood, accidentally buying beer along the way. I’m drinking it now.

Saúde.

Lisbon

I made it to Lisbon. Unfortunately, my suitcase decided it preferred to make it to Barcelona.

I flew a very cut-price airline, so that meant, of course, going to Barcelona from Granada (north-east) and then to Lisbon from Barcelona (south-west). Why have a two hour flight when you can have a five hour flight?

I’m hoping to get a postcard from my suitcase by Christmas.

Take this waltz

I like that Granada's airport is named after Leonard Cohen's favourite poet

Leaving Alhambra

The salida wasn’t clearly marked, so I took a punt.

The Alhambra

It could have been a letdown. Crowds beyond what I expected, with lots of tour groups and schools. And steady rain in what is predominantly an outside experience.

I’ve been waiting to visit this place for years, so I was a bit concerned when I got through the entrance.

Stuff you probably know
It’s a palace built by the Moors from AD 889 with multiple iterations as the nature of the Islamic occupation evolved. After the Reconquista, Isabella and Ferdinand established their palace here in 1492. A few centuries later the Spanish crown moved on, and the Alhambra fell into disrepair. It was damaged by the French under Napoleon and the Moorish architecture overshadowed by the Spanish constructions built upon it. The first real restoration work began in 1830, and it’s now a hugely popular world heritage site.

In the end, it was everything I could have hoped. The gardens make it, although the Nasrid Palaces are a direct link to a branch of European history oft ignored. It’s easy to forget that the Iberian peninsula was under Islamic rule for some 700 years.

It was a bit of a slog. I walked from central Granada, and it’s mostly uphill. And the rain persisted down... persistently.

Gallery

If the player causes you trouble, you can find the Google gallery here.

A new city

I’m here:

No I’m not. I’m here:

Wrong again. I’m here:

Good enough. Tomorrow, the Alhambra.

A discovery at the Prado

My last day in Madrid, so I returned to the Prado this morning for another look at the Goya Pinturas negras.

I also came across an early portrait of Greta Thunberg:

Image Public Domain Prado

Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía

The third of Madrid’s triple treat, the Reina Sofia is mainly devoted to Spanish Art of the 20th Century. The big names are there - Picasso, Dali, Miró, Gris - en masse. They are kept company by lesser known locals and a smattering of international contemporaries. There’s a temporary exhibition space, currently devoted to the works of (ho, hum) Jörg Immendorff.

You probably know the drill. Picasso is king of the castle, and Guernica is the crowd puller. Dali also has his fans, although he’s less savoury these days with his fascist tendencies. Miró is always good fun, but preferably in smaller doses. His work can get a bit noisy when there are twenty or more hanging next to each other.

Problem is, Guernica is a bit hollow in this age of Syria and Afghanistan. It could never signal enough for the horrors of the 24 hour news cycle. Another pixel in the static noise on our screens.
It’s why Goya can still get away with it. Picasso paints about an abstract nightmare. Goya paints us, or at least, a projection of us.

It is interesting, however, to see how much of the collection is focussed on the Spanish Civil War. I brought with me a copy of the 1983 five part documentary series on the war, just to answer a few questions that were bound to arise. It was an awful affair, and we’ve probably learnt nothing from it, but it’s obvious that the Spanish are still processing it. Ironically, the last time I was in Spain was two weeks before Franco died. They still can’t work out where to bury him.

So I’m not putting any images of the art up here. There was some good stuff, but it was the Reina Sofia itself that’s most worthy of writing home about. Housed in Madrid’s original general hospital, with some modern additions, it’s light and quiet, and I had many rooms to myself. 

I felt I was walking through the crypt of some airborne gothic cathedral. The vaulted ceilings, I’m happy to report, lined up perfectly.

Gallery

Thyssen-Bornemisza National Museum

TOULOUSE-LAUTREC, Henri: Yvette Guilbert, 1893

The Thyssen is an art museum named after (the obviously filthy rich) Baron Heinrich Freiherr Thyssen-Bornemisza de Kászon et Impérfalva. Try saying that with your mouth full.

He (well, his son actually) bequeathed much of the family’s wide-ranging art collection to Madrid in 1992. It’s got all sorts of stuff, including Flemish and Dutch masters, Impressionist and Post-Impressionist works, and goodies from the 20th Century. It’s just across the way from the Prado, and supposedly “fills in the gaps” of the Prado’s collection.

As a bonus, they’ve got a temporary exhibition of Impressionist stuff alongside photographs from the period. 

I’ve added a gallery of a few works that took my fancy, but it could have been much more extensive. It’s a very broad collection of famous names. I particularly liked the Pollock:

POLLOCK, Jackson Brown and Silver 1 c.1951

And a very lush Max Ernst:

ERNST, Max 33 Little Girls Set Out
for the White Butterfly Hunt 1958

And joy of joys,  my gal Berthe Morisot gets a guernsey:

Berthe Morisot: View of Paris from the Trocadero 1872

Gallery

If you want more detail on the pictures, you can see the Google Photos gallery here.

Most  images public domain. Those that aren’t are used under Thuyssen Meseum’s non commercial use licence.