There is the battle between the two universes, beautiful nudes of Desideria and Ana Paola on the beach, in the water, in the jungle woods; there is the butterfly kiss on the napkin; there is an eagle series—soaring over Cap de Formentor, perched on the monastery, flying alongside the Hummingbird and the Butterfly; there is the Panther sprinting at gazelle speed, providing a whish of wind beneath the wings of the Eagle.
There is even a Brain series, showing the organ in two dimensions, then one; some collaged, some not, using the actual fMRI brain-imaging scans. There is The Unified Universe contained within the brain.
I paint spontaneously, too, of the beautiful life we are living: some classic still lifes of the produce that goes into Carlotta’s Tuscan dishes, the dishes themselves, pastas, meats, and salads. There is the Harley series of the two of us speeding and slashing through the Andalusian hills.
Then there is the Carlotta installment: in a sundress with one shoulder strap released, exposing her perky breast. I paint her every which way. Every way. Innumerable poses. With love and affection. I paint her with the subtext of making love to her. I have a special appreciation for the series. Because I know then, as I’ve known for a while, that I will spend the rest of my life with her, that she is going to be my wife. It is just a question of when and where I will ask her. But it is on my mind.
My new Unified Universe has been jump-started like the Harley, and I am zooming down the highway at racetrack time-clock speed. I let Carlotta critique my creations. Not only does she view their progress on a daily basis, I welcome her perceptions and viewpoints, from conception to color palette. I am ecstatic to have her so close and becoming a part of my work. I’ve never listened to anyone before, but I listen to her. In this way, we’ve become collaborators. In love. In life. And in my art.
And the series is becoming a bomb. An explosion. Of form and content and brought to life and enlivened with an electric palette.
But it is not all about art, obviously. It is Carlotta and me being free, sprinting and soaring, on the double-eagled Harley with our zapoy hats. The zapoy is over, but the zest is not. We road-trip in tandem to local flamenco guitar concerts, Spanish carnivals, wine tasting and food festivals and fairs, and we attend poetry readings. I even contribute, at Carlotta’s behest, and read aloud my surf poetry. I am introduced as Vladimir de Valldemossa, and we pass out a small booklet of my poems that I’ve been writing in the backyard whenever something hits me while painting. I scribe always in the shade beneath a sky-high lazy Spanish fir “poet-tree.” I even leave my spiral notebook in the convergence of the limbs. And after I finish reading to my Panther, we make more Panther-Eagle love. Then skinny-dip in the pool, the same way we find an excuse to do every day.
I am expanding myself, becoming enamored with words and language, and it feeds my art, too. In a word, I am soaring.
31
A TOUCH OF BLISS
All is good in Ronda in August. All is better than good.
Carlotta and I continue to grow together. I learn from Carlotta and she learns from me. In particular, she introduces me to the freshly revitalized Catholic Church, more modern and less judgmental than I remembered. I was brought up Catholic, and as a result I often felt guilt and was judgmental, especially toward women; that was how Catholic boys were taught. Carlotta and I attend some Sunday masses, even, and I’m impressed with the thoughtfulness of the sermons. That prompts me to do a series of twenty-first-century neoreligious paintings, which I finish off with an enormous canvas of my interpretation of the gods of all religions combined. I have the representatives—Christ, Buddha, Hindu Brahma, Muhammad, and the Great Spirit—all seated, having a “Heads of the Unified Universe” dinner. I call it The First Supper. I’ve never soared so close to the sun creatively, skimming the sky and in touch with the divine.
Carlotta nourishes me with her Florentine culinary traditions and introduces me to Italian cuisines from Liguria, Tuscany, Genoa, and Bologna. We shop the local markets for fresh ingredients, prepare and cook numerous meals together, and often eat on the terrace, bathed in daytime sunshine or evening candlelight. We serve Ligurian seafood dishes, Venetian risottos, white truffle pici pastas from Tuscany, and sweet authentic meat and pork ragù, Bolognese-style. The dishes are decidedly Italian-made-from-Spanish products, a perfect blend of our cultures.
I bring some traditions of Spain to my beloved Carlotta as well. We tour Spanish vineyards so she can familiarize herself with indigenous wines. We make special sangrias for lunches and sunny afternoons. We eat jamón ibérico, or pata negra, the black hoof ham, and we slice it right off the furry leg held in a jamonero clamp. We tour Andalusian tapas taverns, sampling the traditional sherries and enjoying tapas appetizer tastings: chorizo, Spanish cheeses, olive tapenades, chopitos or fried bay squid, almonds, and citrus fruits, all dusted with fragrant spices.
Mostly, however, for Carlotta’s full introduction to the traditions of Spain, I am very excited about the upcoming Corrida Goyesca, a huge annual festival that for some sixty years has been a celebration of Ronda’s greatest bullfighters. I went to it every September as a boy, and I am even more elated that Carlotta intends to go with me this time. She has never been to a bullfight, and I’m not exactly sure how she will react.
She says her father is a big fan of bullfighting and has traveled to Barcelona and Madrid several times to see the corridas. He always dreamed of becoming a matador like Joselito or Belmonte; either that or a black-tie smoky-lounge stage crooner like Sinatra or Vic Damone or Dean Martin. But of course Carlotta processes her father’s lounge-lizard dreams as merely unevolved idolizations of legendary international playboys, vehicles for him to seduce more women—not because he holds passions for the art of song or the skill required to be a bullfighter. And her suspicions are most likely justified.
More than this, though, the Spanish fiesta nacional goes completely against her natural instincts and her immense respect for animals and their spirits. For these reasons, I am wary of taking her to the bullfight, but Carlotta decides she will meet the challenge head-on with an open mind. She even claims to admire me for not turning my back on the Spanish traditions I grew up with. And I believe that is her interest, really: to better acquaint herself with the Spanish in me, to better understand me so she can meld her way of life with mine—another testament to the undying love and respect we have for each other.
I buy a copy of Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon, his famous treatise that describes in detail the ritualized, almost religious art of bullfighting as seen by an expatriate American. She reads the entire text over the course of two days and feels prepared for the ordeal. I am proud of her for leaping forth this way and admire her once again.
But the Ronda days are not without their sketchy moments. The mysterious “caretaker,” the one I keep sending away, continues to try to enter the grounds and even the house without any warning. I think he must climb over the stone walls. Since he can’t get inside the house, I often catch him trying to look through the windows. But it doesn’t do him any good—I keep the curtains and venetians closed on the ground floor, to protect our privacy. I figure he is some kind of spy for the people I left behind in New York, but he always claims he works for the owner of the house.
Another time, Juan, the real estate broker, stops by to talk with me. He says the owner of the house is complaining that all the flowers in the garden have been mauled or eaten by rabbits or deer—even though the villa’s stone walls are secure and animal-proof. I tell him, “I remember eating the petals of one flower during a poetry recital to Carlotta, and we’ve used several single stems for table decor, but that is it.” After a few more verbal skirmishes, thankfully, he goes away.
None of this really matters, though, as long as I have Carlotta with me and I can continue to paint.
32
DEATH IN THE PLAZA
The Feria de Pedro Romero y Corrida Goyesca is pure spectacle, a colorful festival held in Ronda during the first week of S
eptember every year, and people attend from all over the world. The feria honors the memory of Ronda’s greatest bullfighters and celebrates the legacy of the Spanish painter Francisco de la Goya, who sketched and painted bullfighting, matadors, and all the tradition and ceremony that accompanied them.
As I’ve described it to Carlotta, on the first day there is a parade of richly decorated horse-drawn carriages, and everyone dresses in ornate costumes inspired by Goya’s paintings. There is music, dancing in the streets, and special concerts. The highlight of the festival is the Corrida Goyesca at Ronda’s bullring, one of the oldest in Spain.
We attend the opening parade enthusiastically. Besides the horse-
drawn carriages carrying the matadors and Damas Goyescas, or Goya Ladies, there are dancers, musicians, trumpets blaring, and drums and cymbals crashing. I must say that since we have on our Russian hats as disguise, we blend in with the crowd, and no one gives us a second glance. Still, I keep an eye out for anyone who might be trying to sneak up on us.
“And today matadors are like celebrities?” Carlotta inquires as we watch the procession roll past.
“Movie stars. And amore, I will not sugarcoat it for you, the greatest torero of them all was Pedro Romero, who—” I hesitate.
“Killed?”
“Yes, killed, over six thousand bulls without receiving a single cornada, or injury from a horn. He performed his last corrida when he was eighty years old. Goya painted the best-known portrait of him and even designed some of his fancy matador suits. They were intricately decorated but very sophisticated, and the design holds up even now.”
On the afternoon of the bullfight at the Plaza de Toros, we gas up the bike and go to Alameda Park so Carlotta can see the bronze statues of the Dama Goyesca and Pedro Romero himself. Then we motor onward and park near the plaza.
Thousands jam the streets and parks outside. We enter the Plaza de Toros around five-fifteen in the afternoon and settle onto the long shared benches of the arena. The crowd is at a fever pitch, awaiting Sebastian Manuel Orosco, the featured matador. Sebastian is a dear friend from my youth. I did several portraits of him when I was younger, when he took me to his house in one of the charming pueblos blancos in the Ronda mountain range to demonstrate matador poses—with and without the toro. I got word to him that we hoped to attend this corrida, and he provided the tickets. He even invited us to his dressing room, but I prefer to avoid a high-profile setting with press, so we decide instead to dine later at a flamenco tablao, a cozy supper club in the old city.
Carlotta is impressed by the uproarious crowds dressed in their Goya-themed outfits. She especially enjoys the procession into the ring of the chosen young ladies of Ronda, the Damas Goyesca, shining resplendently in their hand-sewn feria dresses and mantilla headdresses. “The Lady Goyas are like a welcoming committee for the city,” I explain to Carlotta. “One highly respected woman is chosen to be president, and fourteen teenagers assist her. It is a huge honor. Some of their clothing and accessories are similar to what the noblewomen in Goya’s paintings wore, but if you look at the shoulders and the complex designs, you’ll see some of them are influenced by the matador costumes. And everything is custom-made, including the shoes.”
Carlotta seems transfixed. “I would love to be chosen as a Lady Goya.” She smiles and kisses me. “Thank you, Rodrigo, for sharing this with me. I’m having a fantastic time. Have I ever told you that I love you?”
“Have I ever told you that I love you more, amore? And you will be—”
“I will be what?”
“A Dama Goyesca. I will paint you right into the pageant.”
She squeezes my hand. “But I need a dress!”
“I had one specially made for you.”
“You mean you have one? There’s a dress?”
“You’ll see. I just hope it fits! You Italians!”
We both laugh. But her face is lit up like a holiday tree. “What color is it? You have to tell me—”
“Cream base, off-white background. For trim, seafoam. Turquoise. Mint. Periwinkle.”
“Oooooh . . . the pastel greens will bring out my eyes . . .”
“You know me and my colors,” I say. “Low-cut. Tight to the arm. Ruffled at the wrists. Tightly curved to the hip and knee. Then blossomed out in ruffles again at the bottom. Periwinkle headdress to top your head and matching flowers for your hair.”
This warrants an even more prolonged kiss.
Just then the crowd goes ballistic. Sebastian is entering the ring, wearing his elegant three-piece matador suit—the jacket, form-fitting trousers, and cloak are covered with sequins, small glittering stones, and elaborate embroidery, all matching the royal blue background fabric.
The trumpet blares, announcing the first stage of the bullfight, and Carlotta grips my hand firmly. She doesn’t let go for the next hour.
The bull enters the ring snorting aggressively, its magnificent muscles rippling in the sun, and the crowd goes wild again. Then the noble beast breaks into a quick trot and is ready for war. Three banderilleros taunt the bull and Sebastian assesses his foe, observing how the bull moves and how fierce he is, looking for any flaw or weakness that he can use to protect himself and to defeat the bull.
Now two picadores enter the ring, carrying long, sharp lances and riding heavily padded blindfolded horses, and the ritual proceeds. I explain to Carlotta, “See how huge the toro’s neck and shoulder muscles are? The picadores must use their lances a certain number of times, set by the plaza judge, to cut into those muscles. This makes the bull lose a lot of blood and eventually weakens him. He is supposed to respond to the cuts by attacking the horses, and this causes additional bleeding and weakness in his neck.”
Carlotta is crushing my hand, but she doesn’t turn away. She is struck by how patient the blindfolded horses are while they endure attacks violent enough to lift them off the ground. “Until eighty or ninety years ago, the horses were not given any padding, and many of them were gored and killed in the ring,” I tell her. We can see the bull becoming weaker. His posture has changed; his enormous shoulders and head and horns are no longer held high, as his lifeblood slowly seeps away. Sebastian walks to the side of the arena and stands apart so the others can do what they have to do.
The trumpeters toot once again, to initiate the second part of the bullfight.
The three banderilleros stick colorful barbed banderillas deep into the toro’s neck and shoulder muscles to drain even more of his blood and weaken him further. The bull makes ferocious charges at the banderilleros, over and over, and we marvel at their courage. The crowd goes wild again when Sebastian returns to the ring with his cape and sword. He provokes the enraged bull into new charges and tires him even more. Then Sebastian goes to the edge of the ring and waits.
The trumpets sound a third and final time, for the last act of the bullfight.
Now Sebastian enters the ring alone, carrying a small red cape—the muleta—stretched over a sword.
“It’s a myth that the bull sees the red. He’s color-blind,” I tell Carlotta.
“Why is the cape red if the bull can’t see the color?” Carlotta asks.
“Bloodstains will be less noticeable that way,” I say. Carlotta shudders.
Sebastian taunts the toro with the muleta. He demonstrates his bravery, his skill, and his control over the enormous beast by standing terrifyingly close while he conducts a series of highly ritualized passes with the muleta. The crowd cheers these spectacular passes and urges him on with shouts of “¡Olé!” Sebastian maneuvers the bull into the final standing position. The bull is spent, his great head and horns hanging low. A hush descends over the arena.
Carlotta begins to turn away, but she holds off averting her eyes and continues to watch. And strangle my hand.
Sebastian approaches the toro head-on, in a quick dash forward. With both hands, he raises the sword above his head and plunges it straight down between the bull’s shoulder blades and through the aorta and hear
t—a clean estocada. The huge beast falls to his knees and then flops over.
Even some of the Lady Goyas join in when the passionately cheering spectators raise white handkerchiefs—which is their way of requesting that the president award Sebastian an ear cut from the bull as a trophy. Then the toro’s body is dragged out of the arena by a team of mules.
My amore looks my way with a shy, wry smile. “Olé,” she whispers to me. We interlock fingers with the same hands that gripped so very tensely only moments before.
“Gracias,” I say appreciatively, “for having joined me.”
Carlotta has endured death in the late afternoon amid much pageantry. We do not speak again until we are outside the plaza. We make only small talk, deciding to take a walk and come back to retrieve the bike later.
33
FLAMENCO NIGHT
After the bullfight, we have some time to kill before we are to meet Sebastian for dinner—first he must shower, give a few words to the press, accommodate selfies with adoring fans, and sign autographs—and Carlotta wants me to show her some of the places I like in Ronda.
When she first arrived, I was on the very edge of survival, mentally and physically, with nothing in the house to eat but the contents of my baggie, and nothing to drink but alcohol. She has brought me back from the brink with her kindness, gentle understanding, and love, and I am pleased that she is interested in knowing people and places from my formative years.
First we walk to La Ciudad, the old part of Ronda, with its cobbled streets and mansions and palaces from long ago. We eye the impressive Casa de Don Bosco and then walk to the magnificent Palacio de Mondragón. It is still open, and I especially want to show Carlotta the exquisite miniature water gardens dating from medieval times, when it was a Moorish palace.
The Beautiful Dream of Life Page 18
