Just Tango On

Gaudi Reflections

There are few things in life that will shake you out of your daydreams more abruptly than seeing a 70-year old naked man riding a bicycle on a busy city street.

It was eleven o’clock in the morning and I had just come out of the Barcelona Metro. I was walking down Diagonal, one of Barcelona’s most majestic boulevards. I was on my way to tour Casa Milá a.k.a. La Pedrera, a residential masterwork by the architect Gaudi and my mind was wandering as my mind is wont to do. A completely naked cyclist (except for a pair of aviator sunglasses) barreled up the broad sidewalk, acting as if this was accepted practice. He was smooth and hairless from head to toe. He was uncircumcised. I made a 180° turn to make sure that I hadn’t suffered a brain hemorrhage and I saw his bare bony ass cheeks wrapped around the bike’s saddle. I shuddered as I thought about chafing or potholes.

No one else seemed to notice or care. I had worried about security on the Metro, so I had my camera tucked away and wasn’t ready for a shot. I doubt it would have mattered. I wouldn’t have seen it until it was too late to take a decent picture.

Coming up the stairs of the Metro at Liceu station in Barcelona, I spied this pair of women deep in conversation while the boy was waiting and the dog smiling at the woman coming out of the Metro.

It was the second time in 24 hours that I had seen some unrequested disrobing. In the hot afternoon the day before, I had attempted to sunbathe and read out on the claustrophobic sundeck located on the roof of my hotel. The seating was quite limited. Lying on the one sun lounge was a fortyish woman, quite fit and bronzed. She was topless in the European style, which despite her nicely shaped breasts did not cause any particular longings in me. I think this was because of her unfortunate face, a square-jawed squinty affair that had the warmth of a drill Sargent and the softness of a tombstone. I perceived the reason for the ancients’ sculptures of headless torsos. Her short-severe haircut had collected into bunches on her crown that resembled the tufts of a toothbrush. She tightened her face and peered through Coke bottle glasses at a book.

A crime scene? This is a street performer on La Rambla in Barcelona packing his costume away. It reminded me of how Raymond Burr's character in Hitchcock's REAR WINDOW got rid of his wife's body.

Other than an arm chair that was directly to the side of the Sargent, the only other space available for sunning was a dining-room table-sized deck where two men lay closely, side by side like toy soldiers in a cigar box. The heat of the sun began to fog my reading glasses. I was reading a tale of a man frozen by a marital and spiritual crisis. He had a proclivity for rumination, lying on the floor staring under his chair. This was annoying me and while I ruminated about my annoyance I became self-conscious and suffered slightly from dejá vù. The men were getting warm and they removed their cargo shorts and began sunbathing in high-cut striped briefs. They kissed on the lips and whispered before one went to have a cigarette. The Sargent turned over on her stomach to achieve an even tan, her breasts pressing toward her open book. If all this had been happening at a normal-sized pool I would have watched with detached amusement. Here my personal space seemed to have been invaded, even with all of Barcelona eleven stories below me. I was hot, my chair was uncomfortable, and there was too much unattractive sexual display. I left and gratefully breathed in the air conditioning in my room.

I can feel the angst of Hitchcock's THE BIRDS and hear the discordant slashes of the music from Hitchcock's PSYCHO in this image.

Yet I had come to Barcelona, in part, because of sexually-charged visual stimulation. Last year I had seen Woody Allen’s VICKY CHRISTINA BARCELONA. The city looked spectacular as did the actresses. Scarlett Johansson’s character Christina discovers her passion for photography and she begins to make her snapshots into art. I watched greedily, thinking how good it would be to once again seriously practice my photography. The fact that I have a crush on Scarlett didn’t hurt.  The additional fact that her mentor and model was played by the fiery Penelope Cruz didn’t disappoint me either. When they kissed in the darkroom, surrounded by wonderful images, I imagined the smells of darkroom chemicals (I can still remember the acetic acid which is a stronger form of vinegar.) I was sold. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be Penelope Cruz kissing Scarlett Johansson or Scarlett Johansson kissing Penelope Cruz. Since I couldn’t decide, I thought I wanted to both kissing both.

I had left my hat inside this pavilion at Park Güell in Barcelona. When I went back to get it, it was gone. I found this couple sleeping, curled up like cats. The sweet sexiness, the intimacy, the light that highlighted their beautiful Mediterranean skin, and their repose made this and the next picture a very lucky find.

This couple was sleeping on a hard marble floor. One can only speculate as to why they are so exhausted.

Above the sleeping couple is this detail from the ceiling in the pavilion at Park Güell. It shows Gaudi's vision for detail as well as his wildness in design

While in Barcelona, I didn’t have the opportunity to choose between Scarlett and Penelope. Instead I spent long solitary days making images. True, I am lucky to do what I do, and it sounds like a boondoggle, but I was rising early to catch the good light, walking in the hot streets all day, dealing with my frustration with my bad Spanish, and maniacally editing pictures until one or two o’clock in the morning. I was exhausted and grumpy. I washed my clothes in the sink. I stopped shaving. For lunch, I ate fruit standing up at the market and for dinner had a scoop of ice cream.

Above Gaudi's Casa Mila, stands a group of imposing guards.

Gaudi's Casa Milá at night, just a block away from the next morning's naked bicyclist

Barcelona has a reputation for pickpockets and so I was constantly afraid of getting mugged. At night, I held my monopod out in front of me and waved it like a baton. I was letting the thugs know “I have a camera, I am a tourist, but if you fuck with me I am armed and dangerous.” Walking back to my hotel about 11 one night, I became aware of a man behind me slowly pedaling a bicycle, so slowly that he could hardly keep it in balance. I paused, extended the sections of the monopod, and lifted it like a knight’s lance, ready for battle. Sic Semper Tyrannus! The man pedaled faster and caught up with another man about twenty-five feet ahead. They started talking. I think they were a team and unprepared for the trouble a sleep-deprived well-muscled gentleman brandishing his weapon of choice on a moonless night might give them. I rounded the corner, still vigilant, went into my room and blasted the AC. I washed the sweat, the dirt and the worry out of my damp hair in the shower.

My vision of La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona's most famous landmark

This was taken from the street in Barri Gótic.