Madrid is the greatest major city in Europe. I’ve only had fine memories of that city and perhaps it is because my young mind was bathed in swirls of rampant sexuality, a rock opera, pizza with orange sauce (I think it was a vodka sauce), carefully managing my money to make it to the end of the vacation, but most importantly, it was where my white whale lives. As an Italian-American, who has family in Italy, I often go back to the motherland to see my cousins and they come here to visit; however my experiences in my family’s mountain village never prepared me for a modern European city. Luckily, and being blessed/privileged enough to have the opportunity, I was able to go on a High school Trip to Europe (Paris, Madrid, and a few other towns).
To be honest, I am not even sure what memories are associated with each city/town/village. It was a rigamarole where a teacher learned he could go to Europe for free with his family if they chaperoned an educational voyage. So, in between eating good food, viewing architecture (Notre Dame has some fucked up sculptures above the doors – but you can get a crepe at the corner of every block), and spending time in museums (don’t see the Mona Lisa, it is depressingly anti-climatic), I was unable to really wander. We had an itinerary that we needed to stick to for our education. I was more aloof back then and was just enjoying my life.
So when I was in a discotheque and teenagers my age were dancing in steel cages (what the fuck Madrid), I was confused… add in the dudes who were 50 watching them and you get a strange twang of gross. Where were their parents? Why were so many kids making out along the walls? Who seriously let in these old fucks? Is this a fever dream? Why is this soda* so expensive? (Oh young Theodore, if only you knew that the price of beer would make that soda look cheap).
But I digress. And this post isn’t about Madrid and the weirdness I experienced there (like that Queen Rock opera I watched when I didn’t speak Spanish… We Will Rock You is amazing – see it if you can, especially with Spaniards singing the English parts). No… this blog post is about The White Whale… not fucking Moby Dick (I have officially met two people who have read that entire book – Hi Angelica and Jason) but specifically my White Whale which is a painting I saw in a museum in Madrid.
Now, I am a person who believes that art should speak to you on a fundamental level. No matter what it is, when you look at it, you should be reduced and unable to comprehend why the painting is making you feel things. You should just have an emotional response. It should lodge itself in your mind and never relinquish its place to another memory. No, a true painting is not something that can’t be deduced by art history or technique. A true painting is something you see and can never forget.
Which is why a painting in Madrid is my White Whale. I’ve forgotten everything around that painting. All I know is that the painting is a double perspective with the Last Supper on one end and an arch on another (which arch? only god knows or an art historian or an architect). Wait, let’s rewind, a double perspective (if I am saying that right) means on Side A of the painting the focus is Object A but on Side B the focus is Object B; therefore, as you walk from Side A to Side B, Object A should shrink and become secondary to Object B. Which means, you can twist what matters to the viewer by simply having them walk to the other side of the painting. According to our tour guide, the painting was placed against a wall by the painter so the patron wouldn’t notice that the arch was the true focus of the piece.
Thus, the painting was subversive. Instead of just painting the Last Supper, the artist went painstakingly out of their way to paint a double perspective that shifted to highlight an arch instead of the supper. I will avoid the philosophical implications of an artist correlating Jesus to a piece of architecture because that is its own nugget to unpack.
So I am rambling, and I guess the outcome of my post is simple: take notes. If something impacts you, don’t assume you will remember it, you won’t. I don’t even know if this painting was in Madrid or Paris. All I know is it was on that trip in Sophomore year. It isn’t some famous painter that you can search for on the internet (I’ve tried) or a painting that everyone knows… no this painting was a magical thing from my teenage years. Everything that happened on that trip is inconsequential when I think of that painting. So go out there and look at art, you never know when it will grab you and make you its servant.
One final note: the most recent piece to slap me upside the head was an intense piece of graffiti, and luckily, I had my notebook and took notes that later turned into the inspiration for a painting in Bohr’s Bathos. You never know when inspiration or art will grab you… so be prepared.
~Theodore
*I’ll never use a brand name on this website. Go drink some tea… soda is poison.