Flirting with the flamenco

It was 52 glorious hours of high octane action (well for oldies like us, it’s a relative thing) and it may have just been a little slice of what the city had to offer but Barcelona is certainly the object of my new affection. 

In fact my mind feels somewhat like a pinball machine. At random moments a memory pops in to my head at high velocity projecting through all sorts of paths and lands in some small place in my brain as an idea of something to create, to cook or to incorporate in to my lifestyle. I am abuzz with inspiration.

I always think of one’s life as being built up by layers of experiences, both negative and positive, to create the person you are today. Some days my quota is running low and I am forced to find pleasure or inspiration in small things - the simple act of getting washing on the line on a crisp Wellington winter’s day, or just going to bed with the dishwasher emptied. And there are some days when bang, smack you get hit head on by almost life-changing events. I think I’m just slowly coming down from three of the big ones.

While Paris fed my soul with its elegance, class and order and Provence helps us pare back the layers to the simplicity of what really matters, Barcelona has fired me up. I’m ready to change the world.

Of course it helps when the six seeking a siesta has suddenly become two. Perhaps that was part of the romance of the situation. It sure did feel like a step up from our previous record of 36 child-free hours in Rotorua to leave the villa on Friday morning and return home on Sunday night, travelling across the border even. And we were certainly not in search of a siesta. We needed a hit of city life.

Main take-out: As parents Jamie and I should be doing more to value creativity in our household. Perhaps a strange conclusion from a couple who own a small creative agency and I am sure we role model the value of creative endeavours within our household. But what do we really do to encourage our children’s talents and aspirations?

I’m channeling Picasso. One of the highlights of our weekend was the Museu Picasso, a collection of his works chronologically following his life as a painter and housed in a jaw-dropping Spanish building. The first works were aged 12. Beautifully detailed oils comprising portraits and landscapes. Aged 12. It doesn’t take long for us to realise our eldest child is only a year younger. While we obviously draw no parallels between our children’s artistic promise and one of the world’s most famous and influential artists it does leave me feeling that we fall short in the provision of materials and opportunity for any of our children to explore any talent they may have. We don’t hesitate to buy ballet shoes, hockey sticks, cricket bats and we’ll faithfully turn up to every event but when do we make time for art and design and just generally thinking outside the norm of what currently exists in their world.  Fortunately only the day before we had stopped at an artist’s supply store to purchase watercolours and papers. We had discussed taking time as a family to paint around our large, shaded outside table, spending time together creating and bonding. We are off the starting block.

It seems that creativity is something that can sustain our souls throughout our lives. Once the body has become too old for sport and the ballet exam levels have all been ticked off there need to be other means of personal satisfaction. It would give me immense pleasure to think that my children could pick up a paint brush aged sixty and paint their way out of a crisis, a loss or even a bad mood. A wholesome, sustaining high.

If anything Barcelona taught me that you do need to have wild, crazy, unrealistic dreams. That’s what makes life exciting, thrilling and invigorating - a roller coaster ride or a pinball machine of flashing lights and carnival music. As individuals we have a responsibility to live the outrageous. But as a collective we need to be prepared to nurture the outrageous - value it, talk about it, promote it, mainstream it. Without that we wouldn’t have the Barcelonas of the world. Those crazy Spaniards at the turn of the twentieth century really did have a few lessons for us.

There are so many other things I could talk about from our time in Barcelona. The architecture, the food, the language, the smells, the sounds, the dogs (that account might not be so glowing). Maybe I will come back to some of those topics in a later entry, once the ballbearings have settled. At the moment it’s all so overwhelming. But I am loving the buzz.

Viva los outrageousness. 


And a footnote on the shopping: Still no handbag. Such is the pressure I have placed on the handbag predicament by sharing it far and wide that I have lost all my nerve and faith in my ability to select something suitable. It is not simply an accessory to dangle from my forearm. I have, perhaps mistakenly, turned it in to a symbol of our retail conquering.  There are purchases to pack in to our suitcases. Fabulous Spanish-made products, some of them manufactured In Barcelona itself. And oh so many opportunities to feed my obsession with colour blocking - I would buy anything if it was placed en masse in an orderly fashion. My favourite acquisition though is the blue glass bottle I brazenly walked out of the restaurant we ate dinner at on Saturday night. It had held our water and is the Spanish equivalent of a bottle of Antipodes, cheap and available from anywhere. But the value I place on it is not monetary. I have great plans for it (as always). There it will sit on side tables and at meals full of wild flowers and loose foliage. It will mean nothing to anyone else but to Jamie and I it will be a reminder of our Spanish love affair - a short one, intense and passionate. This one’s to be continued.