I recently got home from a two-week trip to Europe.
We leapt into and underneath waterfalls in Iceland, treaded over cobblestones and explored a castle at a gorgeous wedding in Edinburgh, spoke broken Spanish, stared at rainbows and sunsets, and ate pintxos that stole our words in San Sebastián.
The end of our trip, in Barcelona, was the cultural leg. That’s code for: it was too hot and too crowded. So, art.
What’s sticking with me right now came from that last leg. It has a little less to do with where we went, and more about the switches flipped by art and travel.
Barthhhhelona
The lenses of Salvador Dalí, Antoni Gaudí and contemporary artists jolted me creatively.
We visited an incredible digital art museum that took us through Dalí’s, err, distinct mind and how his thinking evolved over the years.
The interactive exhibit informs you, then draws you into a massive, experiential room. It projects and transitions through his works in different eras on all four walls.
Afterwards, you put on a VR headset and walk onto the virtual deck of an Egyptian funerary boat, sailing through a desert sea. Incomprehensibly large giraffes, melting clocks and other Dalí staples pass you by.
There’s also a human-sized egg in the center of the deck. When you enter, you’re shut off from the boat and fully encompassed in a starry view of outer space.
It should be lame, but it’s not.
Everyone in the exhibit is identified with a numbered, BioShock-esque deep sea diving helmets along with magical brass VR hands. It’s like the first time you use a Wii. It’s surprisingly fun, and an innovative way to interact with art.
The architecture of Antoni Gaudí/get you a Güell
Most of our artistic experience in Barcelona was following the creations of Antoni Gaudí.
Gaudí, for those unfamiliar, was an architectural genius. Personal details of his life are limited, which is hard to square given the intimacy and breadth of what he created.
He built fever-dreamed masterpieces: rippled, bulbous buildings that were often constructed as odes to nature, something he rightly believed to be sanctimonious.
Gaudí employed the use of distinctive patterns called trencadís; broken bits of tile which, up close, are bright, pretty. But when arranged together and seen from a distance, they offer stunning tableaus of colors and tell the stories rattling around Gaudí’s mind.
His works are, without question, way over the fucking top (positive connotation).
They make you believe in the divine power of maximalism. The inside of the Sagrada Familia — a nouveau-gothic monstrosity of a church which began construction in 1882 and which will never be finished, despite claims to the contrary — has a marmoreal style that makes stone look soft, in a way that is both garish and gorgeous.
It feels, honestly, a little like Medieval Times. Like a comically fake castle. Except it’s real. And you spend the entire time figuring out how the fuck it’s real.
The scale is incomprehensible.
What gnawed at me this entire time — besides an appreciation for the sheer balls his projects required, and the combination of technical genius and creativity he possessed — is the fact that Gaudí was able to pursue these projects, mostly, without needing them to be in service of god.
With the uber-wealthy Güell family, he had his own Medici-like benefactors.
They said, “Antoni, here’s every peseta we have, go make an LSD church for us. And whatever you do, please… make it globular.”
He was able to construct Güell Palace and a host of other buildings which were founded as much in aesthetics as they were in function. Every element, from the fruit atop the Sagrada Familia, to the wood carvings in the Palace walls, required hyper-detailed craftsmanship.
It made me wonder just how much funding and effort was required to finish even one room in the Palace, and how rare it is to find a benefactor willing to support those endeavors.
Gaudí, Dalí, and hundreds of other Spanish greats from that era, like Picasso and Joan Miró, were masters.
But they needed luck: to be alive when and where they were, to meet the right people, to be inspired and spurred by the right events.
It made me wonder how art movements happen. How many great artists get left behind because they were born in the wrong place, at the wrong time?
To all the non-Gaudís out there
This is a topic I would love to dig into for years, but I’ll start with some poetry.
I am currently reading Connie Bensley’s “Central Reservations,” a collection of poems acquired from perhaps the cutest bookstore I’ve ever seen, in Edinburgh.
Bensley, from southwest London, was recognized for her works — winning a few poetry competitions in the 1980s — and well-published, but not a household name.
According to her publisher, Bloodaxe Books, she “worked as a secretary to doctors and to an M.P. and as a medical copywriter.”
There’s a better bio here that gives plaudits for her “cheerfully acerbic” talent and ability to make hilarious, but poignant observations about middle-class life.
Here’s one I enjoyed:
Genes, by Connie Bensley
Someone asked me: ‘Why are you smiling?’
I was remembering my father, Pottering in the garden, Mild, white haired, ironical, Always waiting for the nine o'clock news, Always going in for competitions and unusual diets.
In the First War he came upon a German soldier And they surrendered to each other simultaneously.
Which reminds me from whom I must have learned Always to take the line of least resistance.
Poetry is the most subjective literary art form we have.
But it cannot be debated that Connie wrote some bangers.
Before selecting her book, I combed through a few other poetry collections. I felt nothing. It was arduous reading.
Hers, though, jumped off the page.
It’s the sort of poetry I love most. Observational, witty, funny, self-deprecating, dark, and sometimes esoteric.
And yet, she was a medical copywriter.
Again, she was published and appreciated to some extent. But I wonder how she would have been remembered and promoted under a more favorable set of circumstances.
Arthur Verocai’s resurrection
Bensley got me thinking about other artists who came around at the wrong time. Or, the right time, just not for them.
My favorite in that category is Brazilian jazz wizard Arthur Verocai.
One of my favorite albums of all time, and one I love cooking to, is his eponymous debut.
On the plastic cover of the vinyl version, there’s a quote from legendary producer Madlib, who among other things, created “Madvillainy” — one of the definitive hip-hop projects of all time — with masked rap hero MF DOOM.
The quote reads:
“I could listen to the album every day for the rest of my life.”
-Madlib
But Verocai didn’t get the opportunity to play that album — released in 1972 — live and in full until March 15, 2009.
His album’s initial release was a total commercial failure.
It came out during a period of military dictatorship in Brazil — following a coup, supported, as always, by the United States — which lasted from 1964 to 1985. The government employed aggressive censorship, and committed various human rights abuses.
The foundation was set, explicitly, for art to fail.
As described by The Guardian in a piece interviewing Verocai, his album, “… vanished quickly, under-promoted by his label, Continental Records, and ignored by critics.”
Verocai instead went on to make jingles, telling the Guardian the following:
“The cash was good, but I knew that no one in that environment was interested in the music I made. I think that’s why I ended up staying there. I wanted to run away from myself.”
At a certain point, he couldn’t stand his own project.
He was tortured by the record. When his son, Ricardo, wanted to listen to it, he forbade him. He hid it. When Ricardo discovered it and played it on his own, Arthur Verocai took it, hiding it again.
Not until Verocai got a call in the early 2000s about re-releasing the album did his career find proper footing. The album started to gain a cult following from audiophiles, especially DJs and producers.
That series of events is what led Verocai to L.A., a full 37 years after the album’s 1972 release.
When he was finally got the opportunity to perform, it was with a 30-piece orchestra and accompanying DJ sets by Madlib and DJ Nuts at Luckman Fine Arts complex in Los Angeles.
I put this writing on pause for a couple of weeks because I became somewhat obsessed with this concert. I found out there was a 3-disc concert series called “Timeless,” of Verocai’s concert and two others, and had to buy it.
All were performed at Luckman, with Verocai’s performance last.
The series, shot in black and white, began with a performance from Ethiopian jazz legend and so-called founder of “Ethio jazz,” Mulatu Astatke. It’s brassy, warm, mesmerizing.
The next is an ode to the mother of J Dilla, arguably the greatest producer of all time. The concert, called “A Suite for Ma Dukes,” featured a 60-piece orchestra, in a stupefying interpretation of Dilla’s works.
Then, there’s Verocai’s performance.
Major credit is owed to Mochilla — the production company of Eric Coleman, the lead producer of the project — whose own Brian Cross (an Irish, Barcelona-born producer and DJ) put together the project.
Their approach provides meaningful vignettes, both through interviews and performances.
There are intimate shots of fingers tickling saxophone keys, moments of anxiety in the faces of musicians before solos — and their delight after — and the unbridled joy of Brazilian singers shining in their native language.
It’s easy to get lost in an orchestra, but the film highlights everyone without being heavy-handedly egalitarian.
My favorite segment comes around the middle of the concert.
There’s a cut to a backstage interview with Verocai. He’s describing the roots of his album’s revival, when it was re-released and started to be sampled in the mid-2000s. He didn’t quite understand what was happening or why, but he gave rappers the OK to sample his work.
That decision set him on the trajectory towards this triumphant moment.
The interview cuts out, and the concert fades back in. Verocai, four decades older and tidier than the wild, hirsute composer from the 70s, holds the mic.
Miguel Atwood-Ferguson, who conducts for the “Ma Dukes” performance and plays violin for both Astatke and Verocai, takes over at the conductor’s stand.
The orchestra resumes, and after a few notes, Verocai begins to sing “Caboclo.”
He fades in and out of shots, then comes back into focus, glowing seraphically under the stage lights.
That sequence is potent. With Verocai’s interview, and the transition into his serenade of an overjoyed crowd, you feel the significance of the moment.
The pacing and context of the film, and the rugged timbre of his matured vocal cords hit me with an emotional wave.
His bloom was delayed by circumstance, not merit.
Art lost in time
That moment for Verocai, of long-overdue recognition, is a magnificently human thing. He had been there this whole time, dormant, waiting to be seen.
But the time from the album’s release to it being properly discovered… that time is hard to comprehend.
37 years.
It’s a figure that is infinitesimally small in the grand scheme of human existence, but sickeningly large in the frame of a lifetime.
It made me think of the Vincent Van Gogh scene in “Dr. Who” (a show I do not watch).
Van Gogh perished without having any inkling of how his art would resonate with the world, let alone for generations to come. The scene imagines a world where he finds out his impact:
Van Gogh, by his own admission, expected to be forgotten as an artist.
In a letter to his brother, Theo, dated May 3, 1889 — a year before his suicide and in which he describes his deteriorating mental state — Vincent Van Gogh wrote with absolute certainty that he would not be successful.
In another life, maybe. Under other circumstances, perhaps.
He writes:
Now I as a painter shall never amount to anything important, I am absolutely sure of it. Suppose all were changed, character, education, circumstances, then this or that might have been.
Circumstances.
Verocai’s circumstances have at least given him a rare chance to shine in the twilight of his career.
He has influenced others, like stellar Canadian instrumental group BADBADNOTGOOD, who list his project first among the five most influential albums they’ve ever listened to.
And at age 78, Verocai is embarking on his first U.S. tour over four cities next month. One of which — because the musical deities have my back — will be in Berkeley.
He, Bensley, and this subject grab at me for obvious reasons.
We all want to pursue something compelling in life, to feel like our work and our time is meaningful. To believe we’re clever, talented and unique enough to create something — and be someone — people admire.
It’s a fickle, ill-advised endeavor to try to put an empirical value on, and explicitly seek out validation. It’s far more important to have confidence and pride in your own work.
But art doesn’t have much meaning if it’s lost in the void. Art is for sharing, discussing, and hopefully, appreciating.
Some people get that gratification. Some don’t. And for some, apparently, it just takes four decades.
Tangentially related bonus section
As I went down a rabbit hole of under-appreciated artists and the subject of J Dilla, I listened to one of Dilla’s earliest projects, “Ruff Draft.”
(His most iconic work is “Donuts”).
One of his tracks instantly reminded me of another song from the criminally under-known Shabazz Palaces, a psychedelic rap group from Seattle led by Ishmael Butler. Butler was previously part of Digable Planets, one of my favorite alternative hip-hop groups from the 90s.
I was introduced to Shabazz Palaces by my good friend and college roommate. We watched the video below many, many times, like good, sober college kids do.
Anyway, I wanted to shout out Shabazz Palaces in the spirit of under-appreciated artists, and to ask if you hear any similarities or inspiration between these two songs (mostly the first 20 seconds).
Shabazz Palaces:
Dilla:
As a final aside, we found an outstanding hip-hop cocktail bar in Barcelona — Curtis Audiophile Cafe & Record Store — that played almost exclusively 2000s hip-hop, including MF Doom and Madlib.
Hip-hop culture seems to be delayed by at least a couple decades over there. Lord knows what’ll happen when they discover Kanye.
That note felt relevant, but I couldn’t find the right spot to mention it.
This concludes another too-long article.