Athens and European Street Art

The journey from Caucasus to Thrace, from the enormity of Istanbul into the quietude of Cyprus – to tell it all by a fire at night, it would sound like a tale of caravan dust. We passed along a route that felt like the fringe of the real. In other words, this leg of our trip hasn’t felt like Europe in that classical, normative way.

But then we arrived in Athens. And what is Athens? It’s everything that Europe is, when the continent is reduced to its (narrowest) definition: twisting streets, buzzing motor scooters, leaf-shaded cafes, faded rooftiles, cigarette smoke, ancient buildings – and great, vibrant street art. Graffiti is a huge part of European urbanity, and we’ve been away from it for so long that it was suddenly fresh.

My most vivid recollection of the first time I was in Switzerland is of the graffiti. This wasn’t just tagging and big letters like I was used to. It seemed like art, like someone had created something worthwhile in the space between pretty buildings. This, of course, in perhaps the most bucolic country one can imagine.

If someone has never been to Paris or Rome, has never taken a European train or strolled the banks of the Danube, they might have an idea of Europe as a place where Graffiti is somehow antithetical to the way of life. But stone walls aren’t immune to spray paint, and the European landscape is more drenched in the stuff than anywhere else I’ve ever been.

One very good reason: except for a few picturesque and prim villages, every European town is in possession of some unfortunately ugly buildings. The continent has been populated with them in spurts and fitful bursts, concrete slab growing like fungus in the wake of war and tourist-discovery. To blame are the hotel developers and communist planners, the urbanization of cultures… but mostly a general lack of interest. In America, we had to build our cities beautifully to have beautiful cities at all. In Europe, they took it for granted that their cities were beautiful – and forgot to keep them that way. Who can blame someone for wanting to paint over this?
Athens felt, in so many ways, like a return to Europe proper, the Europe that feels comfortably clichéd from movies and first visits. It’s a place to feel at home as a tourist, because “the tourist” is a familiar role, like the role of the gruff bartender or the kindly baker. Even a neophyte traveler can slip into the part casually, like a second language. Self-conscious amazement – “the old men drink wine at nine in the morning!” – trumps caution, the eyes seem to take in more detail. The street art can be jarring, but it’s also revelatory. Why didn’t I expect this? Is this what Europe is really like?
In big parts of Europe, the answer would be no. Surprisingly, the poorer and more distressed a country is, the worse and more rare its graffiti. In former USSR block nations, there’s much less than in Western countries, and it’s done with more malicious intent. It’s not art in the same way, just spraying against a wall.
We spend a lot of time in places where being “the tourist” is to be in severe contrast to normal. At the beginning of this block of countries – in Georgia, Azerbaijan, Armenia – we felt a kind of hunching of our shoulders, a tightness of gaze, our minds on safety. Not long ago, those mountains were full of bandits. We saw police openly bribed, the men are mostly veterans of recent civil wars. I just read about a suicide bomber in Dagestan, in a town some twenty miles from where we slept. Compared with that, pickpockets and vandals seem almost quaint. Athens is a very safe city.

And it’s also a tumbledown, ancient place where there are lots of vacant lots and neglected buildings. There are so many sacred places – in architectural and religious terms – that the rest of the sprawl feels disposable. People tear down buildings built centuries ago without flinching. What’s a hundred years in the face of the Parthenon or the temple of Zeus? What value does a blank wall have, when it's part of a broken building? It's all part of the layering of history, the growth and decay of the millennia.

(I’m not condoning property damage, of course.)

Walking around Athens, we ducked in and out of neighborhoods that played parts in a colorful whole, taking in the riot of energy and vibrancy. It felt like springtime. That it felt like Europe sounds strange, when we never left, but that was the flavor and sound of the place to our unfamiliar senses. Rebecca said that Athens is a place where you arrive and instantly feel that everywhere before is a long ways off, long ago in the past.

A Muse's Mansion: Gala Dalí Castle

At one point in his career, Salvador Dalí signed his art with both his name and his wife's. He explained that Gala was so much a part of him, his life and his work that it was only fitting. The Gala Dalí Castle (also called Castell de Púbol), was purchased and redecorated by the artist with only his wife in mind. They call the site the southernmost point of the Catalonian "Salvador Dalí Triangle," whose other two points are in Cadaques and Figueres. Walking through, you realize that it is as much if not more about Gala than Salvador. Which doesn't make it any less interesting. This shade of blue must have been her favorite color, because the house was absolutely dripping with it.
I guess I assumed that a grand artist's mansion would be off on its own somewhere in picturesque seclusion. Driving into the little town of La Pera, we found a cluster of old houses clinging to the edge of the property. It immediately humanized the place and the people who'd lived in it. Legend has it that Gala got to know the locals particularly well, sending for handsome young men well into her late eighties. Dalí didn't seem to mind, as part of the reason for his purchasing the castle was to give her that sort of freedom. He couldn't have been all that surprised, either. They fell in love while she was married to surrealist poet Paul Éluard and having an affair with Max Ernst.
Every room had something amusing, something fascinating, something beautiful. Most of the radiators were covered with wicker screens, but this one was tucked away behind a door painted with an exact likeness of the hidden utilities. There was a lion's head flanked on both sides by huge bouquets of dried flowers, a coffee table which stood on ostrich legs and a chess set with pieces that resembled severed fingers. There were also lace canopied beds and a sweetly designed kitchen. It was fascinating to walk through - even more so because photo portraits of Gala, taken in each room, were hung above the spot in which she Salvador had her pose.
Downstairs, in the crypt, Mrs. Dalí is buried. A stuffed giraffe watches over her grave and an empty spot, presumably where he would have preferred to have been buried, sits alongside her. At the time of our visit, a really great photography exhibition was on display- Dalí by Halsman. The portraits of the artist, playful and clever and humorous, filled the room with so much energy that you left feeling like he (and his shape-shifting mustache) were following you through the rest of the house.
A blue Cadillac, with Monaco license plates (something particularly interesting to us), sat in the garage. When Gala died, Salvador took her for a spin in the Cadillac, bringing her from Figueres to Castell de Púbol along her favorite route. You'd think that would make the car seem macabre, but in this atmosphere, it was just another quirky detail. Gala's orange Datsun was parked outside.
There were incredibly views from the balconies and a lush garden, filled with pomegranate and lemon trees, in the yard. Elephants with giraffe legs stood around the greenery and a large fountain polka dotted with Richard Wagner's head were the expected touches of whimsy. It's an excellent place to visit, whether you know anything about Dalí or not. Just being somewhere that is at once comfortable and bizarre, absurdest and romantic is a lot of fun. It's a glimpse at the reality of a surrealist - and his muse.

Barcelona on an Easel

Barcelona has art seeping out of its veins. High brow, low brow, pierced brow, unibrow, whatever - it's here. You can visit one of the 700+ museums or just walk around and, either way, feel like you've done some art viewing. You can tour the absolutely impressive Picasso Museum or enjoy the accidental canvas of a garage door with layers of aging concert flyers, like this young woman.
That's not to say that street art, in all its forms, has been completely embraced by the city. Unlike other European capitals of cool, graffiti is actively fought against, considered "something that degrades the urban fabric." It is routinely painted over and removed in public spaces. However, since keeping storefront shutters clean is the sole responsibility of the shop owners, commissioned pieces on them can't be touched. And tag artists wouldn't dare deface them.
Of course, you can just look down at your plate. A baguette is painted Rothko red by a halved tomato to prep for a sandwich. Silver sardines are piled into a pintxo Frank Gehry would approve of. An eye for design is so inherent that you sort of feel like it's second nature. Barcelona is a city that never feels like it's trying too hard to make things pretty, but leaves you smitten with its style.
It can definitely be argued that Barcelona's artistic identity begins with Gaudí, the great Catalan Modernist. Showing up to "see Gaudí" is probably the most common tourist experience. And you know what? It's some really crazy stuff to look at. But more fun still is walking along the beach and finding a sand castle artist's rendition of the Sagrada Família. It wasn't quite finished yet, but still much further along than the real thing.
A block away from Park Güell, where a mosaic dragon guards the staircase of a whimsical garden city, this performance artist could easily have been missed. But, in Barcelona, you tend to notice things like this. You get used to looking around as you move, confident that there's some detail to be spotted, some art to be seen. And in a city with a tradition of being nontraditional, it's always worth seeing.

Portuguese Azulejos

Coming to Portugal by car, the land begins mountainous and sparsely populated. There are sheep, rocks and dust – not an immediate change from Spain, except that the land suddenly feels tipped inexorably toward the sea. This isn’t the Mediterranean, it’s the open ocean, and a traveler can feel that they’re sliding down towards a hard break between shore and water. There, at the westernmost extreme of continental Europe, met by salt and seawind, one finds themselves confronted by houses that shine, clad in beautiful colors and patterns. Azulejos, in Portuguese, the tiles that cover these buildings are a distinctive and amazing part of this land.
Tiles are as Portuguese as salt cod or lonely shepherds, and come in a staggering array of shades (mostly of blue) and designs. Near the coast, everything is tiled. They’re distinctive as much for their individuality as for anything else, with whole blocks of buildings bursting with color, each façade different.
The azulejos are a holdover from pre-reconquista Iberia, when the Moors controlled the peninsula. The patterns have evolved from early designs, and the basic tin-glazing and shaping technique is little changed. Brought to Portugal in the 1400's from Morocco and Algeria, the ceramics are used to reflect sunlight, trap cold air and keep houses cool during the hot summers. Also, the tiling helps preserve the mortar and soft stone of Portuguese seaside houses, protecting them from damp and rain.
Initially, the ceramics were produced in single lots, with a workshop creating one pattern and color for an individual building. In the 1700's, the great earthquake of Lisbon flattened the city, and produced an unprecedented demand for new tiles. At the same time, Portuguese colonies - particularly in Brazil - were beginning to use Azulejos, and more shipments were needed to satisfy the growing appetite for them. This led to standardizing and mass-production, with simpler, more neo-classical designs.
Some older tile scenes still survive in the country - some even in Lisbon, like this wall in the Madre de Deus Convent. This older, Delft-style type is something of a period-specific thing, though newer murals do exist dating from the 20th century, when azulejos had a bit of a revival.
The tile museum (the Museo do Azulejo) in Lisbon is fascinating and informative, but it feels sterile. This isn’t a medium that does well in neat exhibits. Portugal is a living gallery of tiles, and part of their appeal is their usefulness and cracks. They are out in the elements on the street, subjected to ocean storms and graffiti spray cans.

Maybe the most arresting sight in the museum, we came across a woman carefully cleaning and restoring an overwhelming hoard of old ceramic.
The azulejos are also part of an old way of life, crystalized in a way that’s somewhat unique to this country. Mostly untouched by the great wars, Portugal – even and especially in Lisbon – is an old place of hung laundry and odd angles, cobblestones and crumbling beerhalls. After the great earthquake of 1755, Lisbon was rebuilt and then left to sit, almost untouched. The azulejos of that time have lasted and become part of the language of the architecture. Houses are still built with the tile, old buildings remain as vibrant as when they were first constructed.
Architecturally, azulejos are what a traveler always hopes for. So much of Europe is modern or rebuilt, or just not quite place-specific enough. Portuguese tiles are immediately connected to a sense of a specific landscape and history, like the curved rooflines of Japan or the adobe of the American southwest. Seeing them in use, one gets excited about the differences that are out there, the beauty that exists all over the world. They stand out in the mind afterward, and are ever-intriguing at the time.

Not Taking Pictures of the Sistine Chapel

You can take pictures all throughout the Vatican Museums, except for inside the room that every one of the 4.5 million annual visitors are most likely there to see. I figured it wasn't allowed for security purposes. To keep the flow of traffic moving. However, it turns out that Nippon TV, a Japanese television company, funded the restoration of the chapel's frescoes in the 80s in exchange for exclusive photographic rights. Any book, postcard, print, etc wanting to depict the Sistine Chapel has to buy the copyright from Nippon TV. Talk about a good investment.
Signs like this were everywhere leading up to the Sistine Chapel. Be quiet. Don't fall down the stairs. No photography. Good thing they include that second one, because if someone actually did fall down the stairs, there's no way people would be able to remain silent - or refrain from taking pictures. This picture was taken right before entering, the closest our photo memories would come to capturing the famous work. Or so we thought.
We've seen a lot of rule-breaking in the Vatican. Shorts, miniskirts, flash photography in the Basilica, photography of the Papal tombs. On our tour of the Excavations beneath St. Peter's (which was absolutely amazing), photography was prohibited. Yet, the tour in front of us each took turns flashing away at the box of Peter's bones. In the Sistine Chapel, though, it was particularly egregious. Guards just sat or stood there, not saying a word.
Just how lenient are the Vatican security guards? Well, just look at these people! Carla, our garden tour guide, told us that the man who attempted to assassinate Pope John Paul II was put in jail only because St. Peter's Square is technically under Italian jurisdiction. Had the crime taken place under Vatican City law, he would have just been forgiven and set free. That may have been an exaggeration... but I am inclined to think it wasn't.
Obviously, I decided to break the rules, too - but focused only on the tourists and not the work. It felt a little more honest that way. Plus, it's not like you need my photo to show you what one of the most famous works of art looks like. By the way, back when the pope was striking the copyright deal with Nippon TV, he apparently gave NBC a shot at it, too. They foolishly declined. How this fact hasn't popped up in an episode of 30 Rock, I'll never know.

Drive-By Art

Usually, the more we drive, the less pictures get taken. One of us is too busy driving and the other one of us has been lulled to sleep by the heated passenger seat and the light bouncing off of snow. Stopping abruptly to take a picture also happens to be a terrible idea on a highway. In Belarus, though, things have been different. Since our GPS doesn't work here, I'm kept awake by the task of navigating and there are barely any cars on the highways. Taking pictures of bus stop after bus stop was only the beginning.

This road stop/inn provided us with two warm bowls of soup and an outdoor gallery of kitsch. The lawn was absolutely filled with wood carvings and statues. Castles, Goldilocks and the three bears, a moose. It felt like a miniature golf course, covered in snow.
I just love how a place like this, that obviously caters to a trucker crowd, still has such a cutesy, kitschy demeanor. Though, every truck we've passed on the road has had a line of stuffed animals on their dashboard or a row of tiny flags or fabric flowers hanging across the top of their front window. So, I'm sure they appreciate it.

This is another tavern, next to a gas station. So much care seems to be taken to make things looks cheerful. No matter how many places like this we pass, they still strike me as surprising, heartwarming and sort of funny every time.

Every so often, we've passed a mushroom. It looks exactly the same every time and soon, we realized that they would pop up about the same time as a sign for a WC. Merlin correctly surmised that the mushrooms were the WCs.

As you may expect, they were far less adorable from the other side.

Then, there are the times when you're making a u-turn on the highway and get a glimpse of a church that looks like this. Painted and carved wood at its most beautiful. These are the moments when you feel lucky enough to be able to stop, roll down the window, point, aim and click without a car honking or rear-ending you. These are the moments that we go, "Wow. We're in Belarus."

Hagel Face

We saw this in a gallery window in Leuven, Belgium. That's chocolate hagelslag all over her face. If I had money to spare and/or a home with a wall to hang it on, I would have bought this. I wish I could have gotten a better picture, but the print was about four feet tall and showed the length of this little girl's body. It was amazing.

Art in Ghent

Something that struck me about Ghent was how much their art spilled onto the streets. This including graffiti, unique store signage and shop windows with oddities galore (like the squirrels playing poker).
We stumbled upon this alleyway that was pretty impressively covered with tags, more mural than vandalism.
I always love seeing graffiti when traveling, probably because in our own home city it seems to be painted over as quickly as it is put up, unless it was specifically commissioned. As much as I liked the feeling that I got a glimpse of art before it was 'erased,' it's also fun to see a week or month or year or decade's worth of it piled up.

This one's for my mom, whose favorite animal is the penguin, or at least it was back at the age where I asked everyone what their favorite animal was.
I can't vouch for the quality of the fries here at "Best Frit" but I did enjoy their fry sculpture. (My feeling was similar to Don Draper's opinion of Ali... if you have to say you're the best, are you really the best?)
As the day got grayer, we decided to go inside for some 'real' art - our very first museum visit of the trip. The man at the front desk of SMAK (the Contemporary Art Museum) thanked us for "our sense of adventure" and off we went exploring.
This was definitely my favorite. It looks like there's a glare, but when you move around it to see it more clearly, it still looks like there's a glare. From every direction. Merlin hypothesized that the artist took a photo with a glare and then took a photo of that photo - hence, the constant glare effect. It was really frustrating, which I enjoyed.

Here are a few pictures of Merlin 'sploring. I think art looks better with him in it.