motherhood

I haven't been able to keep up with much this past year, but I am happy to report that I have survived the first year of motherhood! Baby is growing strong, using those fine chubby legs to walk and dance to Iggy Pop. There are kisses being blown, dogs getting barked at, and some sharp little teeth poking their way out for that grin I love so much. It has been hard though, being a working mum, but thankfully it's summer now.

I have done so little drawing and travelling that I haven't felt that I could add anything interesting or of value here. Sometimes it crossed my mind to write about my favourite baby soup recipes— I had no idea I could get so passionate about making baby food— but that's not what I want this blog to be. To be honest, I don't know what I want it to be, nor what it is anymore. In any case, I know that I have missed writing, and sharing my photographs and drawings with you.



So this is for the mums, new or not. At the end of each exhausting day, there's a little one who thinks the world of you. I am not known for my sense of humour, but I'm a riot to Baby. It's all pretty awesome.



Fernando Botero. Maternidade. 1999. Bronze. Jardim Amália Rodigues, Lisbon, Portugal.

day at the museum

Back in Rabat, the beautiful Musée Mohammed VI Art Moderne & Contemporain is holding an exhibition of work by Spanish artists from the time of Goya until the present day. Here are some of my favourites, followed by Baby's:



We are grateful that the museum is so child-friendly— our nerves about taking an infant to see the work finally settled when the smiles kept coming from the gallery guards. Baby loved the bright colours and contrast of some pieces, and we hope that more experiences like this will build a future appreciation for art!



Francisco de Goya. Miguel Fernandez Durán, marquis de Tolosa. 1787. Oil on canvas. 
Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida. José Echegaray. 1905. Oil on canvas. 
Ignacio Zuloaga. Alejandro Fernández de Araoz. 1936. Charcoal and chalk on canvas. 
Rafael Canogar. Untitled. 1973. Silkscreen on paper. 
Rafael Canogar. Estudio para un monumento. 1972. Lithograph on paper. 
Equipo Crónica. El constructor. 1971. Silkscreen on paper.
Equipo Crónica. Guernica. 1971. Silkscreen on paper.
Equipo Crónica. La pincelada con Felipe. 1971. Silkscreen on paper.
Equipo Crónica. Interior de Las meninas. 1971-1972. Silkscreen on paper.
Equipo Crónica. Composición. 1971. Silkscreen on paper.
Ferrán García Sevilla. Poligon 32. 1988. Acrylic on canvas.
Ignasi Aballí. Serie Biografias. 2001. Oil, acrylic, tempera, and vinyl on canvas.

caravaggio

The syllables of his name are enough to dot my skin with goosebumps, but to see the traces of his hand in the lines of Goliath's brow— the sickly lips of Bacchus, the rosiness of so many fingertips— I was removed from my place in this world, brought to the darkest of shadows, and transversely, to the brightest of lights.



Earth and stone ground to dust, suspended in oil and pulled across a stretched cloth by bristles— that coloured dust forming the pale ridge of an eyelid, the half-moon of a cuticle.



Faces and their anguish so familiar, they feel like my own.

Caravaggio. David with the Head of Goliath. 1609–1610. Oil on canvas. Galleria Borghese, Rome.
Caravaggio. Madonna with the Serpent. 1606. Oil on canvas. Galleria Borghese, Rome.
Caravaggio. Sick Bacchus. 1593. Oil on canvas. Galleria Borghese, Rome.
Caravaggio. The Inspiration of Saint Matthew. 1602. Oil on canvas. Church of San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome.

trevi

Magnificent from any angle— creamy marble against a black sky and pale green water— the light and shadows ever-changing from the ripples in the pool beneath. A dream carved in stone, growing out of the facade of the stately building the way clouds take on the shapes of battleships then rabbits.



On the edge of the crowd, we found a spot to sit where I could dip my hand into the cool green water, where light gently reflected from the glittering coins that represented the many hopes of returning to Rome. I tossed a dirham in.

marble made flesh

Light cuts through the cool darkness inside St. Peter's Basilica, illuminating the curves of figures carved in stone, and everything glows gold. Were it not for the legions of ecstatic travellers who made their pilgrimages from all corners of the world, it would be a sombre place. I was moved by the tears in so many eyes, the wide grins, the brides in marble-white, knowing how important this moment was for so many under the same bright dome. I felt an empathy, for it was my pilgrimage too.



Thirty-odd years since I first saw its image in a weathered book, I had come from North Africa for the Pietà, to look upon the miracle of marble made flesh and fabric by Michelangelo's hands over five hundred years ago. I came for the gravity captured in the little bulge of skin made by Mary's thumb under her dead son's sinking arm, for his ankles, for the grief in her young face and outstretched hand.

the school of athens

Beautiful Raphael, the bold and ambitious, still staring back at us from within his masterpiece, nearly lost among the bustling bodies of great philosophers— rooms away from the work he so admired, painted by his bitter rival. It is said that when Raphael sneaked into the Sistine Chapel to catch a glimpse of Michelangelo's progress one night, he was so taken by what he had seen that he decided to include a portrait of the temperamental artist within his own fresco, front and center. While others are engaged in fierce debates or study texts, Michelangelo, representing the Greek philosopher Heraclitus, seems adrift in thought— his body powerful beneath his smock, as muscular as the figures in his magnificent ceiling.



It seems cruel that Raphael was only given thirty-seven years on this earth, but oh how much he managed to give us in that short amount of time...

laocoön

Laocoön and your pretty sons, the twisting of your flesh and serpents entwined in your limbs still command awe— were you the ones looked upon by Pliny himself? How many eyes have studied the lines of your agony since your creation?

a dream realized

Among my bedtime stories were my mother's art books. I have wanted this ever since I can remember.

The older I get, the more aware I am of how brief our time is. I suppose it's only natural. While staring up at the twists of spine and muscle so beautifully painted over 500 years ago, loved by so many, my vision became hot and blurred.



I am so utterly grateful.

what beauty hands can make

From the Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga:
Nuno Gonçalves. Panels of St. Vincent. c. 1470. Oil and tempera on oak panels.
Unknown Master. Female Portrait. c. 1620–40. Oil on canvas. 
Jacob Adriansz Backer. Courtesan. c. 1640. Oil on canvas.
Francisco Vieira, o Portuense. The Lamentation. 1800. Oil on canvas.
Unknown Flemish Master. Female Portrait. 1569. Oil on canvas.

let us talk of beautiful things

It is art that elevates us.


In a world where people are intent on using their hands to destroy and to hurt, I am grateful for the beauty that hands can create.

Calçada by Alexandre Farto, a.k.a. "Vhils". Cobblestone tribute to Fado singer Amália Rodrigues.