The intensity of our artistic marathon warranted some time for reflection and musing. The sky was the deepest cerulean, the sun was warm, it was a perfect day for a walk in a park. Spread out high upon the hills of Barcelona, is a green wonderland of cacti with waves of shattered ceramics, Gaudí's Parc Güell.
Conceived as a housing development by Eusebi Güell, the project never caught on. Gaudí bought one of the two houses nestled within the Parc, and set to work transforming the land into a municipal garden— a pocket of peace above the bustling city.
Hidden amongst the trees are curving stairways, fairytale buildings and an enormous terrace adorned with a long serpentine bench of colourful broken tiles. As I was midway through a sketch, the afternoon tranquillity was interrupted by the disturbing sound of fist hitting torso.
A territorial dispute between trinket vendors suddenly erupted into violence. As the blur of flying fists and kicking feet came crashing towards me, I threw my sketchbook into my bag and fled, just as an old man drove a wooden plank into another man's head.
I abhor violence. I ran off into the trees until I could no longer hear the shouting. Beneath limbs shaded green, I found the quiet again. Along a meandering path, I stumbled upon the most beautiful sight in the park. It was so marvellous, and dare I say perfect, that I wondered if it was crafted by some artist's hands.
Two knobby, rolling trees, sighing into each other, entwined like lovers.
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