Bold and Beautiful

Just to give you an idea of Wiley's scale...

Kihinde Wiley's paintings at the DeYoung ("The Archeology of Silence", until Oct. 15) are stunning, not just for the immense size of the works (sculptures included), but for the execution. He is a master painter and sculptor, and for that, the impact of his message is even stronger. The idea behind the paintings is to pose his models in classic settings (recalling renaissance works of figures wounded, dead, or struck down in iconic paintings of mythical heroes, martyrs and saints), but to show his modern black models as they are, right down to ankle bracelets and Adidas. The DeYoung frames the show in a political light, confronting the silence about systemic violence against Black people through art. Whatever your take-away from this show, see it. The impact of his work is indescribable and
must be seen to really be appreciated. 

 Detail from picture above

If Wiley's name rings a bell, it might be because he painted the presidential portrait of Barak Obama, which was on display at the museum recently, and is now home in the National Portrait Gallery, Washington D,C,

This sculpture is nearly as tall as a two-story building.

 Detail from Sculpture above

All pictures by Joanne Orion Miller 2023

Underground - the Caves of France and Spain

Horses, Lascaux II, Montignac, France

I've wanted to visit the caves of central France and northern Spain since I was an undergraduate in Physical Anthropology. The human and animal populations of Northern Europe took refuge in the Aquitaine basin of France during the last Ice Ages; the Vézère valley of the Dordogne was a refuge for both Neanderthal man and Cro-Magnon man between 80,000 - 14,000 years ago. In Spain, the populations near the sea in Cantabria also moved to the caves to survive. Though they lived only in the entryways in man-made rock shelters (inside the caves, rock lamps fueled by animal fat with herb wicks provided minimal light), they moved into the interior caverns long enough to made fantastic, anatomically correct drawings of certain animals (chiefly bison and horses, but also deer, woolly rhinoceros, and other species that no longer exist or inhabit the area), and a few symbols: dots and hand prints made by blowing ground ochre pigment through a bone. 

Humans are seldom represented, and when they are, it’s with an animal head or features. Why early humans left these marks on the walls no one knows. I imagine a family finding their way into the still darkness, guided by the animal representations which usually faced into the depths of the cave, marking which passage to follow, and finding a wonderland of animals, a zoo of drawings on the wall lit by a succession of flickering lamps. What a wonder then! And today, too. What a privilege to be able to see the real thing in this lifetime, and to feel the presence of those who passed through these magical spaces so long ago.

Standing on the balcony of Gaudi's Casa Batllo, Barcelona

Not all was ancient art: During this trip, I enjoyed seeing the work of three contemporary artists I greatly admire: the whimsical architecture of Antonio Gaudi in Barcelona, Dali’s sometimes bizarre drawings and constructs in his home town of Figueres, and Richard Serra’s monumental steel structures in the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao.

And I have to get some jamon, and soon!

This trip started on October 12 - to see the whole thing in order, click on "October" to the right.

The Velvet Underground at Last

A rainy day in old Sarlat

The Hôtel Les Remparts (48 Avenue Gambetta, Sarlat-la-Canéda) was a charming, small, stone-fronted hotel on the edge of lovely old Sarlat. It had a welcome and handy elevator, and free parking (though it was a bit of a hike up a hill). My second floor room was small and cozy, and looked out on a neighboring roof covered in moss. There were plenty of restaurants and shops nearby in the old village, and easy walking everywhere. I based here to see the caves in the region, the most well-known of which is Lascaux II, a reproduction of the actual cave, which has been closed to the public for decades. However, I planned to see the REAL thing, as there are other caves in the region with prehistoric art that are open to view.

Huge limestone formations loom over the narrow roads

At the entrance to Font-de-gaume; I'm psyched!

After an early wake-up, I drove to Les Elyzies (pronounced LA zy—the French make fun of the way most English speakers pronounce it: LEZ ZE, as it sounds like zi-zi, a child’s term for pee.) I arrived at Font-de-gaume in the dark, much too early for the 9:30 opening, but only 40 people per day are allowed in, and it was first-come, first-served. While waiting, I had a great conversation with a Dutch/French lawyer/wedding planner. 

I got to be La Fortunata again, as my friend’s husband, Christoph Kusters, had arranged an English-speaking tour at 10 (he runs a multi-lingual tourism company, Taxi a la Carte), and they let me come along. Font-de-gaume was a fantastic introduction; the cave opening was at the end of a steep quarter-mile trail up a hill. The cave itself was narrow and tall with genuine cave paintings and carvings made 18,000-14,000 years ago. Bison butted heads and elk-like creatures stood together on the walls. Incredible. In the dark, the guide lit the paintings from the side with a flashlight and traced the outlines with a laser pointer to make it easier for us to see; the paintings were part of the wall, and often used features of the walls, such as cracks or bulges, as part of the painting. 

Font-de-gaume wall painting

Artist's rendition of the same bison

After the 45-minute tour ended, I tried to reach the cave of Rouffignac—about 40 minutes away--before it closed. I didn’t make it, but the drive on country roads through late October farm fields was spectacular. I was in love—not only with the presence of the people who marked these walls so long along, but the Dordogne in general; verdant and peaceful, dotted with towering limestone ramparts. 

Chez Fany

I went to Montignac, had lunch in a local non-tourist cafe, Chez Fany Bistrot du Marche (where the public market is held, behind the church at Place de L’eglise, 05 53 51 23 78) for 14.5 Euros (about $21)--soup, salad, lamb couscous, no room for desert. Then I went to nearby Lascaux II,  (quite a nice website) the reproduction of one of the original prehistoric art caves. As a repro, they did a pretty good job, but after Font-de-gaume, I was underwhelmed. The original artwork must have been stunning—I tried to take a few pictures on the sly (absolutely no photography was allowed, either in the repro cave or the real ones), and was rightfully harassed by a fellow tourist.

My bad

I returned to Sarlat, and attempted to book tour of El Castillo in Spain on the hotel computer (a two-day advance is required). I was falling hard for the Dordogne, and considered staying longer rather than returning to Spain, but El Castillo was only open on Friday, according to the website (which was consistently wrong, by the way). Walked around Sarlat old town in the evening, and had perfectly awful Thai soup for dinner; I banished the memory of it with an amazing apple tart from the patisserie across from hotel.

A Speedy Dali-ance (dalliance: noun: a casual romantic relationship)

Dali's wife, Gala, served as model in many of his paintings. Nice swan, too

The next morning, I walked early to the market in the center of town next to the rambla, Figuere's central public park--got lost of course, and did the grand tour of the part of town most tourists don’t see. Figueres has a wonderful open-air public market—I bought fantastic pears, figs and hazelnuts (they all grow locally), and a portion of dark red aged Serrano ham--nearly 30 euros ($43.50) a kilo, but worth every penny. I became addicted very quickly—it’s often served as a breakfast item on a super-fresh baguette, nothing else needed; it is its own butter, and I have to find a source in California. Soon.

Let there be light! My favorite Dali lamp--and so practical, too

Later, I went to the Dali Museum, the main reason for my stop in Figueres, Salvador Dali’s hometown. Though the museum—fashioned from a theater that was bombed out during Spain’s civil war—had few of the exquisitely detailed and finely drafted paintings I had seen in art collections around the world, the building held many of his drawings, sculptures, and early paintings along with a few delicately wrought jewels.

In the early afternoon, 

I began the drive on the thruway to France. Though there are plenty of two-lane roads that trace the routes of the thruways, speed limits are low, and I was anticipating a 6 1/2 – hour drive, so I toughened up and prepared to pay more than $38 in tolls between Figueres and the turn-off for Sarlat-en-Caneda in central France (over the next week, I dropped $100 in tolls). The thruways are incredibly well-maintained, nearly empty, fast (average speed, 120km/hr; about 85mph) and boring, boring, boring. But did I mention they’re fast? I had a hard time keeping up in my Volkswagen Passat. The rest stops, which are frequent and clean, usually offer a variety of questionable fully packaged food in plastic. In fact, plastic packaging was everywhere I went in both Spain and France—it made northern California look like eco-heaven.

As I got further north, The terrain became greener and hilly. I turned off the thruway to Sarlat in the last of the light; a misty rain was falling. Along the road, buildings of yellow stone stood among the fields and trees. I arrived to a very pretty old town, and a nice hotel, the Remparts.

Amsterdam, Thurs. May 9 – Van Gogh Go

For more of Vincent's work (we ARE on a first-name basis),
see my travel website images: aboutJoanneMiller.com

“Avoid the lines, purchase your ticket in advance” just isn’t true. I had a 9AM ticket entry (the first of the day), and I waited outside with 200 other people for more than 30 minutes. Then we were all admitted at once. Initially, it was really difficult to get near any of the paintings because there were so many people, but the way the new modern museum is laid out on several floors, visitors spread out in a few minutes.

I realized it’s not just the extraordinary colors and unique brushwork that draw me to Van Gogh (which the Dutch pronounce van hockh)—I actually had a crush on him, based on his many self-portraits. If I had met him in my younger days, I probably would have fallen for his intensity and manic energy and excused away the depression and pyschotic episodes as artistic temperment. One thing for sure: painting was his life. It’s sad that it enriches us, but made him a wandering pauper during his brief life. I wonder what he would think nowadays, as his face and work have become a brand to sell T-shirts and mouse pads. He’d probably cut off the other ear.

One of Vincent's experiment with pointillism

I planned to go to the Rijksmuseum in the afternoon, but even with my prepaid ticket, it was a three-hour wait (yes, three hours). I didn’t find out until later that May 9 is Ascension Day, a national holiday; locals and tourists were all vying for a spot. The city’s most famous museums surround a three-block long plaza called Museumplein (pronounced museum plane—Dutch translates fairly easily); a massive lunch place on Museumplein was full of merry, beer-swilling tourists. 

The Museumplein's block-long fountain

I opted instead for a hearty sandwich at a nearby cafe recomended to me by one of the museum guides: Vrolyk, on the corner of Hobbesmustraat and the canal, just down the street from the Rijksmuseum.

After lunch, I wandered around in circles, thinking I was moving towards the de Cuyp market in the section of town called di Pijp, and discovered that I ended up back at the Rijksmuseum at 2:15. The wait had dwindled to one hour. I decided to try again on Friday morning, since my ticket wasn’t for a particular time. I had bought a 48-hour chipkaart for the metro, which enabled me to ride anywhere on Metro transportation during that time period at no extra charge—a really good deal for $17.

Buildings near my hostel

                                                                                The architecture of Amsterdam is modern, creative, innovative. Of course, so much of the city suffered bombing in WWII that it rose almost from whole cloth in many areas. The layout is in a series of semi-circular canals fanning out from Central Station; I don’t think I’ve ever had so many opportunities to get lost.

Main Library interior

                                                                                It was too late to visit Rembrandt’s home, so I rode up to Cental Station and saw the incredible main library with a citywide view from the restaurant on the top floor. Then I wandered down to Waterlooplein, the old Jewish neighborhood, and walked around ...the streets were very crowded and the shops were interesting—a bit of hippie flair here and there, a hand-made candy shop, a few second-hand stores, and a few “coffee shops”—no, I didn’t sample the merchandise. I was already lost in Amsterdam. Not only is marijuana legal here, there were a wallful of herbal “trips”—legal chemical mixtures that mimic LSD, MDMA, and a lot of things that didn’t exist in my experimental days.

View from the top floor of the library

As I prepared to enter the Metro station, I realized my Metro chipkaart was gone right out of my pocket where I had put it when I began walking to the station. Fortunately, that was the only thing IN my pocket. I remembered getting bumped by a short man on one of the busy streets. Or, it could have fallen out when I was reaching for my camera, or when I went to the bathroom, but  I think I would have noticed...still, it was gone and I was upset, attached to the insignificant money value--about $7 left on the card—but really mad at myself for being careless. 

I ended up getting lost again, ate a a truly terrible Argentinian restauant (out of fish soup, she offered chicken soup of a sort...almost all broth and teensy pieces of chicken with tortilas).

I walked back to Central Station and bought a new 25-hour card that expired 7:30 Friday night. When I told the policeman at the station my pocket had been picked, he made a wry face, especially when I demonstrated the bumping part. He hears this all the time. I usually pride myself on how careful I am with things I don’t want to lose, and wouldn’t have even had the card in my pocket normally. Its a lession learned, pretty cheaply.

For more of Vincent's extraordinary work, see my travel website images: aboutJoanneMiller.com