It was a cold winter day in Madrid, a nasty wind blowing away what little warmth the sun would give. I was making my way up town from the old Malasaña neighbourhood with its remarkably Dutch outlook, mostly The Hague and a touch of Amsterdam I thought, past la Glorieta de Bilbao and into twentieth century territory where the people I met still seemed very afraid of democracy. What secrets they had to take into their graves, I wondered, or had they honestly bought into the fairytale of the all powerful capital of a once mighty empire? Admittedly, when I see those grand, slave labour erected buildings along the wide boulevards it is tempting to believe the city has a long history of cultural dominance over the rebellious spirited peoples that inhabit the country’s various coastal regions, but reality has it Madrid’s primacy could only flourish when modern communication techniques rendered physical distances meaningless. The evening train from Barcelona Sants to Atocha had made the ride through the dark empty swath of land that is called Spain feel like a longish stretch of underground, my hometown suddenly not much more than a rather eccentric suburb, el Pozuelo de Llobregat.
To shield my body against the Iberian circumstances, I had dropped some mildly encouraging substances and when they came into life I suddenly realised I was looking for something. I hadn’t known this before, so it wasn’t like remembering an occupation, rather I gave in to an early notice of things to come. Having no idea where to look, I decided to go where Madrid would lead me.
After the streets took up the business approach of the city’s true and present-day might, my choice was made by an elderly couple trying to get into a smoked glass structure of some twenty storeys high without any apparent entrance. I curiously followed their climbing annoyance and was taken to an unseemly door behind which a vast foyer enfolded, covered in brown carpeting, vaguely lit and decorated with plastic palm trees, calf leather lounging sofas and two super sized money machines. Although the feel was that of the former headquarters of the Staatsicherheitsdienst in East Berlin, I assumed we were in a bank. Still chasing the pensioners I descended a narrow staircase and came into a slightly brighter basement room where colourful paintings hung from the walls.
Aha, I thought. I always think aha when I see paintings. And I took it this was the place I had been going to.
Presenting myself as your average visitor, I began circling the artworks, all made by artists from Latin American origin and together representing an overview of what the continent produced during the twentieth century. I saw works by Frida Kahlo, Fernando Botero, Remedios Varo and Leonor Fini, amongst names that were new to me. I sensed a human approach in both style and choice of subject, something European art of the same period is often lacking, and I wondered if this was what I had been looking for.
I couldn’t be fully satisfied with the outcome. Remembering images better than slogans, I need a particular painting to like best and keep in mind, a small treasure to add to the heritage in my brain, the product of years of visiting museums and art shows. So I started the tour anew, this time carefully examining each picture on its possibly qualifying for my private collection, and I quickly found what I searched for in a bright red gown hanging over the corner of an indoor pool, much off-camera portrayed, almost en profile, a Dali styled picture with a strong personality of its own, something I would love to hang in my living room I thought.
I took out my mobile phone and quietly made a flash free photograph. Immediately an attendant jumped at me.
‘Photo taking is forbidden, sir.’
I lowered my phone and smiled. ‘It’s just that I like this one particularly well,’ I offered, ‘I won’t sell it to anybody.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t do, sir.’
At that instant the security guard poked his stick in my bag. ‘Give me the phone,’ he told me unceremoniously.
I looked into his swollen face and decided he was dead earnest about the importance of his task. And I don’t know whether it was the cold outside, this place I was in or the beefy conviction in the eyes of the guard, but all of a sudden I felt the strong need to disobey him and lead both him and myself into a whole new reality, a world in which his idiotic rules did not apply.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t do it,’ I said, and with that I ran off, past the information desk up the stairs and onto the street. Well, such was my intended route. I had hardly covered a yard or a mighty bang struck my hand away, pushed me over and flung my mobile through the air, a deep oomph suggesting it had crashed into another visitor.
Great panic ensued. People started screaming and I heard the drumming of rapid feet on the typically elevated plywood exhibition floor. My arm felt like I had stuck a needle into a wall socket. I picked myself and my phone up and used the chaos to run up the stairs and get lost before anyone could chance their mind.
Out in the crispy chill of the Castilian afternoon I inspected the remains of my mobile phone. The screen was burned and the lights were off and none of its buttons reacted to my frantic pushing. Had I perhaps been tasered? I dropped the dead machine into a litter bin and started thinking about my next move. I had found what I seemed to be looking for and then had lost it immediately. I clearly needed a smoke and drink.
I went into the first bar I encountered, a narrow corridor with a lonely waiter and a small colourful glass floor at the back. The place was called the Big You Bar and I was the only guest, with quiet rhythms over the sound system.
When I had what I wanted in front of me a girl came dancing on the glass floor. She was surrounded by sparkles of light that seemed to build a net around her, following her pretty moves.
‘Do you like me,’ she asked.
She wasn’t wearing a whole lot more then underwear and high heels and I said yes, but I told her I had business looking for a painting of a gown over a pool.
She smiled and said, ‘come over and look around, I am sure you will like the interface.’
I did as told and when I was on the glass floor lights began to shine and I became surrounded by images, like a hologram, constructing something of an entrance gate headed Welcome to Big You.
‘How do I type?’ I informed.
‘Just think it.’
I thought I want to get in and I instantly zoomed through the gate and now I saw twinkling stars everywhere, each one beckoning me and whispering, do you like me. I thought, perhaps, and the universe suddenly spun around me and I considered the possibility of thinking of the girl to my side, but I chose to think of an art exhibition which included a Dali style red gown painting by a 20th century Latin American artist whose name I hadn’t had time to read. I zoomed to a nearby star and stepped into a virtual version of the show I had visited in the flesh not even an hour ago, the guard a foolishly grinning puppet who did not recognise me. I went for the wall where the red gown hung but it wasn’t there, in fact it wasn’t anywhere among the other paintings I remembered well. How strange, I thought. I changed my way of thinking and went in via another star and again I couldn’t find the work I was looking for. I thought of each individual name of all the participating artists and I had a marvellous tour through the lives and pains of more than twenty painters, but a red gown hanging or standing or levitating or whatever I would not find.
‘How are you doing,’ the girl asked. She had kept me company on the glass floor and must have begun wondering what my thoughts were after.
‘Not too well, I’m afraid. I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for.’
‘That is odd,’ admitted the girl. ‘Everything is always there in the Big You, even things that don’t exist in real life, even things you only accidently had thought of.’
I again considered the possibility of having distracting thoughts, but I did not want to embarrass either of us.
‘Who controls it,‘ I asked in stead.
‘You do.’
‘I do?’
She laughed at my bewilderment. ‘They are your thoughts, aren’t they?’
I considered the meaning of her words and was suddenly in a hurry to return to the exhibition.
‘I must leave,’ I said, thanking her for the experience.
I stepped out into the darkness of an already freezing evening. Time had passed a lot quicker than I had expected and I understood the gallery must be closed by now. Pretty soon the late night underground would take me back to my Pozuelo. I would never be able to verify the true existence of a red gown hanging over an indoor pool.
