Friday 19 July

God, it’s hot.

This may ring a little hollow, depending where you are.

The streets are too much.

The flat a small improvement – out of the sun.  Switch to chilled white.

But no aircon.

And sitting down is still a problem.  

Somewhere between discomfort and creased with pain.

But, you know, it could be worse.

In time, I’m sure it will be.

Thought I’d say goodbye to the Museo de Sorolla (pron. Soroya) today.

Fridays.  I’d forgotten.  Schools excursions.  Add in the summer tourist troupes.

Disaster.  

Took the 27 (Embajadores) articulated shuttle down Paseo de Castillana, Recoletos, Prado.

A good van for Reina Sofia, Prado, Thyssen, Caixa Forum and Mapfre.

There’s one beneath the water tower at Plaza de Castilla, too.

I was at the Prado yesterday.

Archaeology on Tuesday.

No problem going back to the Reina Sofia.

That’s where it all became clear, you see.  Four years ago.

An education, you might say, and it never lets me down.

Usual gig.  Toilet.  Best public toilets in Madrid.  It’s the ethos, man.

The patio has little shade, but I found what there was and read.

Beneath Calder's giant mobile.

Danny’s letters - recent past.

Simon Critchley on Tragedy and philosophy.  On life.

I spent some time on the second floor: permanent collection 1.

Valedictory stroll past Dalí, Gris, Picasso, Miró and lovely Angeles Santos.  

When will Delaunay’s Tristan Tzara come back?

I’ve been surprised so many times.

Fourth floor.  Utopian Pulse – Flares in the Darkroom.

These rooms reawaken my soul.

They make me speak.

Sleepless nights are killers, not denying.

But.

N sends a photo of torrential rain.

I asked my students years ago, “What is it?"

They pointed out the window.

True.

But the other nine tenths, they’re not so quick to tell.