More high culture April 16, 2008

After our extensive pub crawl in La Latina, we fully expected to wake up in a bit of a shambolic condition. Despite the efforts of our noisy neighbours of indiscernible nationality, however, we woke up feeling no bad and ready for another swatch at Madrid. Our new-found optimism compelled us to undertake another cultural visit, this time to the Centro de Arte de Reina Sofia.

Unlike the Prado, there was no queue outside the Reina Sofia and we were admitted with less of an airport routine (i.e. bags were still x-rayed but we were spared the trip through the metal detector, which had yesterday forced some highly accessorised fellow visitors to shed bucket loads of belts and bangles). There was less of an up-tight feel to the whole place, perhaps as a result of the absence of the fear-of-god artwork that dominates the Prado.

Rather, the Reina Sofia houses mainly 20th Century work by mainly Spanish artists, most notably Picasso and Dalí. In addition to the permanent collection, we were lucky enough to visit at a time when the Paris Picasso museum had loaned the Reina Sofia four halls’ worth of material. Some of this pretty much constituted early doodles that wouldn’t have got you through Standard Grade Art but, nonetheless, provided insight into the foundation and progression of Picasso’s style. Also interesting were his more conventional portraits, particularly those of Russian ballerina Olga, which demonstrate the core artistic competencies that allowed Picasso to go on and subvert the rules to such great effect. The stand-out attraction was, of course, Guernica.

The Picasso exhibition alone would have been worth the €6 and, for me, that was certainly the interesting bit. The Dalí stuff was all a bit too mental for my liking and difficult to get excited about when his finest work is displayed in the West End of Glasgow (take note Reina Sofia!). Many of the other artists on display seemed to be to cubism what Menswe@r were to Britpop (i.e. derivative also rans jumping on the coat tails of somebody else’s idea). Particularly guilty of this was Joan Miró, although John was less convinced of his chancer status!

All that art left us somewhat peckish but determined to avoid the tourist traps surrounding the gallery. A few blocks away we were enticed into the restaurant equivalent of a 1980s bachelor pad by a rather attractive menú del día. It was here that I was unceremoniously disavowed of the notion that it is impossible to fuck up soup! Expecting a cream of pumpkin variety, I was presented with a snotter-coloured liquid which tasted like mega salty fish stock. John fared better, having opted for a tuna salad. The main courses were a vast improvement; my roast pork and tatties were a welcome treat after the bogey gruel and John’s halibut gratin with prawns hit the spot. Not in the same league as the food we’d eaten the previous night but a fraction of the price so can’t complain.

In other news, constipation is no longer an issue.