It turns out I have Internet access here – probably from some neighbor who hasn't put a password on their system.
I had various minor anxieties about coming here: will it be too commercial, too self-conscious, too artificial? Will I have the unhappy experiences I've had in the past, even though they are always mixed with good ones? Is Sitges too familiar, too frequent a part of the last six years of my life, for it to offer me the refreshment, the clarity and change, that I seem to need?
But late May and early June are, evidently, a very different time to visit than August. Vastly fewer people, quieter – it is not hot, there will be rain several days this week. A quieter, lighter, clearer (and cooler) experience than I've had previously.
I'm staying in a large, extremely comfortable, even over-decorated apartment, where I can move from room to room and change my experience, rather than being trapped in one room as in the past. The first day was filled with artistic and artisan-istic experiences – after a glass of wine with Chris, I went back to my room to sleep for a bit; and looked through an absolutely beautiful book of narrative/surreal drawings by a gay artist (the cover is, indeed, so arty that I'm not sure, but I think the artist's name is Rodrigo, and the book is called and is about Manuel; or maybe it's the reverse; or maybe his name is Manuel Rodrigo). It's about him falling in love with a tall, hairy man – but it is not at all crude or pornographic, instead remarkably passionate, very much about adoring, even noble love.
On shelves throughout the apartment are the best things in it, Dennis' beautiful Art Nouveau pottery collection; and there are still that pair of brilliantly painted, if intermittently unpleasant, paintings on the wall (I hate the part with the skinned pig in it, but it's easy to look above that, and as I said to Susan last year, it certainly is well painted if nothing else).
I started reading one of the books I brought with me – Hal Duncan's Vellum – which starts out in an electric and intellectually complicated fashion, really a beautiful piece of writing... one that implies that the universe, and other universes and beings and angels and devils, are all, artistically, made. And still reading, went out to dinner – a bit too late for most places (and that alone shows that it is not high summer, as it was only about ten p.m.); at Air, a trendy, charming, and expensive restaurant, where I received the most intricately artistic of meals (a starter of a timbale of fish, a light aspic holding small boquerones on top, with ground nuts, rose petals, and rose jelly on the side, just for an example).
All of which has given me a stronger sense of the artistic background of Sitges. There is always evidence of that background – the houses of Modernista artists, the museums, endless claims in the guidebooks, etc.; this has been an artists' colony since the late nineteenth century – but it is usually difficult to imagine it that way in August. In August, it's easy to think of trendiness, of commercial style, of, perhaps, selling paintings; everything is busy enough, all the saleable wares are emphasized enough, that it's hard to imagine someone coming here to be by themselves and paint, or sculpt. Or write.
But at this time of year, it's easier to see: the town is not just physically but also psychically quieter –
which perhaps is the answer to my anxieties: perhaps I will be able to relax and find myself again, here.
Comments