Somewhere in La Mancha whose name I do want to remember, not long ago I painted my pretty picture.
was October and was in Toledo, a city with its own fictions gave me the impression of having fallen asleep at the edge of time. Because while it moved inexorably, the city was arrested, a stone in the middle of the Middle Ages. So there I went to paint the bank. Resting on a hill
wall sepia postcard town I was winning with its beauty as I approached the "New Door Hinge." Toledo was, for me, like a maze of overlapping cities, as a city of stories I was born and lost in the Castilian plateau two thousand years ago.
While walking through its streets, I was immersed in the heart of its history and tradition. Cobbled streets is twisted at least attempt. Streets without sidewalks, in the fashion of the times in which they traveled only carts and galleys. I have no doubt, the capital of Castilla-La Mancha captivated me forever. They called my attention
houses built around courtyards enormous that were havens of ponds, fountains and plants. I let myself captivated by their swords, crafts, ceramics and marzipan sweets that filled the windows and glass doors.
And there I was with my palette and my brushes that October afternoon in front of the canvas and across the Tagus, near the Puente de Alcántara on the waterfront of the fabled Toledo, preparing to paint the banks of a river that does not is a relative of the sea. Nor is brown but green still waters that run on a bed of stones. Apronte
knobs, then carefully chose the colors and finally sank into the observation stage. I learned that not all is waking the open eyes. Because there is no landscape painting that was conceived when the artist's eyes look distracted.
unfolded the stool and sat on it to give the fabric the first hints that would support putting a sky blue flippantly decided to be on the cliffs.
I soon find the harmony between colors and shades. After five hours, my mood was jubilant for the work almost completed. I hurt a little waist. However, I felt the peace that is felt in the evenings when the sun begins to dye it all orange and then, satisfied, I set out to collect my things.
I was happy and undisturbed except for the presence of strange hat with a singular subject who, sitting on a bench in the shade of an ash tree in my back, not looking away from the table.
was then that he began to recite:
While the sad, lamentable evil
accent ridge line are mine, bitter echo
tired breath,
answers the mountain, meadow, plain, river,
demos the dull, quick sound
wind chest complaints hot and cold
out to my dismay, asking in vain for aid
river, the mountains, the meadow, to the plain.
To my surprise, the man continued crying, mood grows
my tired eyes
the waters of this river, and on this Meadow
the various flowers are
thistles and thorns that the soul entered s'han.
not hear the high mountain my anger, and plain
has grown tired of listening;
and so little relief to my pain
not find in mountain, in plain, meadow, a river.
__ What a nice poem! __ I managed to say with sincerity. __ I sang
Elicio, pastor in the Tagus coastal resolved responded __ man, by unwarned insolent interruption. He added:
__ The conclusion of this love story and history with other things that happened to the shepherds far unnamed, will you, kind sir, read the second part of this history, which, if peaceful intentions with this first part is receive me, will have to be seen in her eyes and understanding and I baptized "La Galatea."
course not quite understand what was said and its incongruity to drop a smile. Gave little weight to the comment, not considered but as a simple story of an elderly passenger upset in Spain determined to tell me about some old legends Toledo.
I was, for example, that "Hercules mesmo Toledo founded as a cave." The Romans named Toletum to say "place at the top" and that, like Rome itself, sits on seven hills. Again and again repeated that he was also Carlos V. Imperial City
__ My dear gentleman, you know that before the Cristo de la Luz stubbornly knelt horse of King Alfonso VI and the others speak the same manner, Cid knees, swinging his Tizona__ Colada and went on to say.
overheard saying incoherent things about Raphael, Titian, Rubens, Velazquez, Goya and, of course, being in Toledo, El Greco. I was against a poor old man alone and alienated.
was, then, at the precise moment when I was about to leave with my things, when snapped,
__ has failed you, sir, the windmill painting beyond the banks of the Tagus!
I turned and looked him straight in the eye, serenely fixed on mine. The unique character and not still sitting in the shade of ash but that was standing upright like a marquis, and turning away from sunlight in the afternoon that extended the shadow of his silhouette to my feet.
mills __ What? __ I dared to ask, even assuming the obvious answer.
__ Well, sir, but what other giants of the four arms. The enemies of the Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote the Knight. Do not skip to remember that you are in the yolk of La Mancha, the essence of Castile.
I must admit that this man had revived in me a certain curiosity. Something told me I should stay and talk with him, at least to listen. So I did, after inviting him to sit beside me, under the ash, to talk to finish the evening.
until that moment I noticed the details. It looked very strange. Tall and thin, very thin. He wore a beard and mustache neatly trimmed white which gave it a stately air. Dressed old clothes, unusual, covering half with a bizarre cloak, tied with rope around the neck, dark gray cloth weighing. He wore, as I said, a rare felt hat with a little less flying wing and cup was wearing a top hat and black boots with ridiculous top buckle on the uppers. Arguably, he was dressed. Completed the outfit with a stick handle and silver toe and suede gloves in a color like burgundy. But his ridiculous appearance he seemed not to affect it. __
paint like you, Sir? __ Asked with the intention of entering a field that domain.
Without looking, he replied:
__ I have been painting at El Greco, stood beside him while completing the task in his famous work "The Burial of Count Orgaz." Great was my honor to know for a fact.
Greco __ What? __ Asked as if he had more than one. I was a fool to do so. Luckily for me, did not respond and continued his story.
__ The distinguished crowd, with which El Greco gave nobility to friendship, courtesy shortened in the treatment and called him by name: Domenico.
Of course I knew almost everything about El Greco. In his large painting revealed an ancient legend that the death of the Conde de Orgaz in 1312, the very San Stephen and St. Augustine from the sky down for burial in the church of Santo Tomé. Could distinguish clearly the celestial plane of earthly reason enough for the table is present in two halves. __
Go therefore, rowed to the Church of Santo Tomé and there, worth God, you will not succumb or resign his heart at the foot of the painting. Note the same way, sir, and with care, between the characters attending the funeral, because there are himself and his ten year old son. A restless young man and somewhat cocky for my taste. __
taste to yours? __ Asked astonished.
__ So of course, a gentleman, attachment to El Greco led me to miss seeing his little rod, playful, spoiled.
For a moment I was thinking of El Greco. The sun hid behind the cliffs when we choose to say goodbye. Before leaving, he paused, raised his left arm that was missing his hand and, referring to Toledo, said: "Peñascosa grief and glory of Spain, in light of their cities." __
Dear Sir, "I yelled" you tell me your name?
turned his head, looked at me and said,
__ Don Miguel, my name is Don Miguel, fourth son of Don Rodrigo and Dona Leonor, an enlisted soldier at Lepanto where I received shrapnel, captive the Turks, famous and miserable writer, Brother of the Third Order of St. Francis, husband of Catherine, father of Isabel fruit of my love affair with Anna, ex-convict, named in Alcala de Henares and died of dropsy in evil Madrid, April 23, 1616.
made a gesture of reverence and then quickly disappeared, and just like that. Thunderstruck, I gathered my things and walked to the Plaza de Zocodover. I could not leave my astonishment. There in the plaza, the city is more alive than I had anywhere else. He carried the box, the box of brushes and paints and folding stool. The sun went down and the afternoon began to cool, put on my sweater and directed my steps towards the hotel not stop thinking about what happened.
remained in Toledo during the next week with the intention of meeting him again. It was my desire and hope. There was no cover corner. But to no avail. I asked the neighbors for a gentleman hat and cane, wearing a coat to her ankles, but no one knew what to say. To the extent that, already seen as a suspect, the city wanted me arrested for a prowler assumed alienated.
Years passed and still I can not get my head that meeting, this talk with such unusual character. Whenever I sit in front of the fireplace at the picture, I remember him.
way, I titled the painting "One evening in Castile." José Alberto Vatalaro
