The tools of his trade: paintbrushes of Spanish artist Joaquín Sorolla (1863-1923) at his home studio in Madrid.
#spain #madrid #art #spanishart (at Museo Sorolla)
Tucked away from the bustle of Madrid, the Sorella Museum is the former home studio of the 20th-century painter Joaquín Sorolla, housing his canvases of colorful Spanish scenes, tiles, ceramics and furniture. A treasure to find @tuckbeckstoffer
#spain #madrid #art #spanishart (at Museo Sorolla)
Spring snow showers.
#spain #madrid #packedforspring (at Madrid, Spain)
Hand-painted Spanish tiles, 1800s.
#spain #madrid #tiles #ceramics (at Madrid, Spain)
Theee for drinks.
#spain #madrid #dogfriendly #tapas (at Madrid, Spain)
Palacio de Longoria is an Art Nouveau palace that politician and financier Francisco Javier González Longoria ordered to be built in the district of Chueca, in Madrid, Spain. Longoria contracted the Catalán architect José Grases Riera to design and build it in 1902. It is one of Madrid’s most notable examples of modernist architecture, and reminiscent of the work of another great Catalán architect, Antoni Gaudí.
#spain #madrid #architecture #artnouveau (at Puerta del Sol Madrid)
An improper cuppa.
#jasminepearltea #tea #leaveseverywhere (at Madrid, Spain)
Skyline.
#spain #madrid #rooftop #oldvsnew (at Madrid, Spain)
Lunchtime.
#spain #madrid #tapas (at Puerta del Sol Madrid)
An afternoon walk to the eternally green Regent’s Park is to bear witness to London’s human rainbow; a Muslim woman waits at a cross-walk, peeking out at the world from her burqa, the sun’s glare making her squint like a giant black cat just awakening;
two Italian women, full of enthusiasm and laughter, take bad pictures in lousy light to show off to drunken husbands left behind in a pub;
students at The Royal Academy of Music fling open their windows to welcome the warm spring day, flooding the street with the wail of scales from violin, cello, horn;
a waifish young Brit in a blue pea coat splayed on a bench pretending to read a John le Carre novel spies on University students playing frisbee on the lawn, his eyes longing for invitation;
an Afghani man hawking strong shots of coffee poured from a gleaming brass pot chats up several Ethiopian men who add extra sugar and cream to their steaming cups;
a gaggle of giggling Japanese girls in matching skirts skip by, their smiles infectious;
an Indian couple sits cross-legged on a paisley blanket, knees touching, staring at each other, her black silken hair catching the sunlight and making this decidedly American woman suddenly yearn to hear her wife’s laugh.
Walls of aroma interrupt my progress; cigarettes and dope, cheap cologne and expensive perfume, blooming hyacinth and daffodil, stale piss.
The public spaces of huge cities are so … public. Privacy and aloneness are afforded only behind the locked door of an often tiny room, and amidst the noise, constant like a dull ache, quiet and stillness are to be found only in the heart and head. Museums, parks, cafes are an extension of one’s living room, where a guest is encouraged to order tea, linger, people-watch, daydream.
#england #london #citylife #meltingpot (at London, United Kingdom)
Spring nudging winter out of its way…
#england #london #springiscoming (at Notting Hill)
Shopping for dinner on a gray Saturday afternoon, alongside a million other jostling souls.
#england #london #boroughmarket (at Borough Market)
Late afternoon reflections on art.
#london #art #museum #architecture (at British Museum)
Sign me up.
#london #chocolate #phd (at Hotel Chocolat Covent Garden)
Breakfast.
#england #london #boroughmarket (at Monmouth Coffee The Borough - London)
#london #livemusic #jazz #supportthearts (at The Piano Bar - Soho)
Lunch of udon noodles, handmade each morning, floating in broth with wild mushrooms, fiery togarashi powder and walnut paste.
#london #japanesefood #udon (at Koya Bar こやバー)
Red Pots in the Garden
2000
David Hockney
#england #art #davidhockney #tatemuseum (at Tate Museum)
I was so hollow when I was young, trying to fill a hole I didn’t even understand existed, never mind groking its depth. Not like David Hockney. He had so much to say at such a young age. Even his early paintings seem evolved; aware of how to express his voice, his sexual proclivities, his desire for the sunshine and lightness and magnificent colors of California’s rainbow, the need to escape the heavy gray sameness of 1950s and 60s Britain. Occasionally I’ll see a child in a passing stroller and know exactly what that child will look like as an adult; features, eyes, dim-witted or sharp of mind, soulful or unburdened. No doubt, Hockney was born with the large round spectacles that adorn his blocky head, the face of a wise and patient owl.
The paintings detail his everyday life: shaggy pile carpets and burning cigarettes, the fold of a trouser and a sidelong glance, the flutter of an LA palm, the hues of the English countryside and the curated jumble of the its gardens, the wrought iron railings of France, the wealth of his collectors, the love of exotic and erotic travel, the admiration for men and the lust for stocky boys in swim trunks diving into crystalline pools. Perhaps that is the greatest gift an artist can offer: creating a world of empathy by offering a glimpse into their interior life.
Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy, 1968
#davidhockney #england #art (at Tate Museum)
River Thames at dusk. (at London, United Kingdom)