Mary tells a fast-paced story about an most eventful Spanish holiday
TO HELL WITH PICASSO
"To hell with Picasso.!" I muttered under my breath. Nearing the end of my third
year at Art College, there were these awful exams to get through. I must complete my thesis
on Picasso before the end of the year. What could I write about the man? He was a mass of
contradictions, displaying various styles and techniques. His work spanned nearly seventy years;
he was perhaps the greatest artist of the 20th century and had produced some 20,000
works, ranging from oil on canvas, to ink, chalk and charcoal on paper, and many caricatures.
Some of his work was outstanding, whilst some was abhorrent to me. Naked women often seemed to
permeate his style. Moreover, Picasso himself was reputed to have said "People who try to
explain pictures are usually barking up the wrong tree".
My acceptance at Art College in London had not been easy. The principal asked
me
why on earth I thought I would ever be good enough to make a living as an
artist in the
commercial world. I told him that if I did not at least try, I would never
know. Studying art was simply
something that I felt I had to do. I felt like an unopened flower because
I had never developed
my hidden talent.
Then to my surprise, after I had submitted some drawings, I was awarded a
scholarship. Even so, it was not easy and there were times when I doubted if I would make the
grade. Now there was this awful hurdle of final exams. Then I had a thought. During this next
long vacation I would go to Spain to see if I could unravel some of the mysteries of Picasso's
background and work.
I arrived in Madrid from England at the start of summer. It took two long days
by train from France to Spain; monotonous and tiring. Madrid was impressive with beautiful
wide tree-lined avenues leading to a statue of Christopher Columbus. I bought a Picasso T-shirt,
and took a tram to the Prado Museum, famous for its collection of paintings by the great Spanish
painters, El Greco, Velaquez and Goya. Next to the museum is a lovely park with great trees
and smooth lawns.
I found cheap accommodation in a nearby pension and met another English girl. We
decided to team up; she was a law student and had a diploma in Spanish. The following
evening we took a train to Barcelona.
Barcelona is a thriving port and the capital of the state of Catalunya. It has
outstanding Gothic and Art Nouveau buildings and superb museums; the art museums are dedicated to
Picasso and other painters. Picasso had lived in Barcelona as well Paris after his early
years in Malaga. I studied many of his paintings; the city was full of them. I worked a little in
the evenings to keep myself afloat, although I was finding it difficult to understand the temperament
of the locals, who seemed volatile and lived on their emotions in a world where logic did not
exist. It was no use trying to reason with them. By day I kept my journal and tried to glean as much
information about Picasso as possible and worked hard making notes. I had hoped to attend some
classes at the university, but it as it was the holidays so there was not much happening
academically.
One day, while buying a paper I heard an English voice behind me saying "Why
don't you get the Daily Telegraph, it's much more interesting." So this was how we met Henry. He
told us he was television actor and had been working on an assignment in Madrid. He was every
hitchhiker's dream. I'll take you wherever you would like to go!; he said obligingly. "No
strings attached." In our naivety we did not realise that he was using us as much as we were using
him.
"Let's go to Malaga", I suggested one day, "It's Picasso's
birth place." Malaga
is situated in the southernmost region of Spain on the Costa del Sol. It was a pleasant drive along
the coastline, although tourism seemed to be encroaching and ruining a lot of the original
character of the towns and villages. Nevertheless tourism had given Spain a livelihood. At first
glance the town did not appear inviting. It was one of the poorer resorts with high unemployment
figures. The clusters of high rise buildings looked pretty grim; however the central zone had
a number of interesting churches and museums, not to mention the birthplace of Picasso and
the New Picasso museum, which housed an important collection of his works. I made some
sketches of the buildings.
Around the old fishing villages, now absorbed into the suburbs, were a series of
small beaches with some of the best fish and seafood restaurants in the province. Henry
suggested we should drive inland and visit the wine cellars. Long whitewashed warehouses flanked
the banks of the river; tours and wine-tastings were free of charge. This was also the region for
sherry and brandy.
After spending an afternoon at a wine cellar sampling wines and brandies I was
feeling in a nonchalant mood. This was my downfall. Henry said he would drop us girls off at
a nearby hotel to freshen up. "Collect you later, OK?" he casually
queried.
The evening came and went and there was no Henry. "What are we going
to do?" We
had no idea where he had gone, and I was wearing only a thin cotton frock;
my camera
over my shoulder. "My luggage, passport, traveller's cheques,
and portfolio of writings
and drawings were in Henry's car. All we had were a few hundred pesetas
between us. I had
travelled all this way to complete my thesis, and now all my hard efforts
of the last few weeks were lost - I was
going through hell, and all because of Picasso and my exams.
We called the local police station, but Henry had vanished without trace. I
said, "We have to get back to Madrid where the British Embassy will help us." Quite a challenge. We
had to get back to Madrid without money. The journey was long and hard and I spent half a day
under a tree sheltering from the rain. At one stage I tried to use the washroom in a nearby
garage and the owner took exception and locked me in, but after much screaming and shouting he
let me out.
Eventually a truck stopped and we got a lift to Madrid, sitting in the back
amongst a lot of suede and leather jackets.
.
The British Consulate were not very helpful, although they did manage to fix us
up with some temporary visas to get us to the U.K. but were they were not able to make any
financial arrangements. There was nothing else for it, we had to try to hitch hike all the
way back to the English Channel and hope that we would have enough for a ferry ticket. Once back
in England it should not be too much of a problem. It took us about 5 days to get to Calais,
but at last, the end was in sight and we boarded the ferry. As I climbed on deck, I happened to
glance at a newspaper lying on a chair, and there was our whole story! Henry had been
caught trying to cross the border from Spain into Portugal. He had been on the run from the
police for several weeks and had been travelling under the disguise of an escort to two young girls
in Spain. He was wanted in connection with a murder case.
I arrived back at college with the thought of exams coming up and as I still had
not completed my thesis, all my travels and efforts and discomforts of the past few weeks had
been in vain. I would have to start all over again.
"Oh, to hell with Picasso." I said.