Dennis Hollingsworth

Opening: Galeria Miguel Marcos

One of the first things that I noticed about the show was how all of the work was curatorially assembled in a meticulous way. All of the work in this group seemed interlocked. Three rooms: one of photos of paintings over photographs (terrible that I don't have the name of the artist on hand... lo siento), the central gallery of Barcel?, Balkenhol and my paintings, and a larger gallery with Pistoletto's mirrored Odalesque (bouncing us back to the photos in the first gallery), Schnabel's vortex of sentiment and painterly sediment, and Barcel?'s totemic figure.

The interlocking thought arose as I stood in the central gallery, and I noticed that Balkenhol's painting (a woodcarved slab of wood) was an unwrapped (from three to two dimensions) version of his freestanding figures (three dimensions)... and that looking at an adjacent Barcel? still life painting with strange papier mach? encrustations seemed to provoke the resulting equation between sculpture and painting (3D embedded within 2D and visa-versa).

It was a sweltering day. This summer is beginning to resemble that deadly-hot summer of a few years ago (I forget which year it was) where heat waves killed so many people in the EU. The next two months will be interesting that way.

I got into the city early and hooked up with my friend Gerard Smulevich. After some coffee and an errand or two, we dropped into the gallery to check out the show and find the hotel where Miguel so generously provided for me that evening.

The gallery was a hive of activity and Gerry and I were breaking their stride. And even so, Miguel indulged us in conversation. I was glad Gerry had a chance to talk to Miguel. We got out and out of their hair and back into the streets of the old city for more great conversation and a bite to eat before we retired to our hotels.

The gallery is around the corner from the Palau de Musica. Located on the second floor, an elevated courtyard opens the gallery up, a garden on one side, the street to the other.

The gallery was too hot to sustain the crowd all at once, so most everyone hung out in the courtyard and took turns cruising the show. Miguel keeps the gallery in a pristine museum condition: no drinks allowed inside; the floors an walls are impeccable; the installation was refined to the centimeter by
Miguel's number one, Alberto; staff was stationed to thwart errant fingers from touching the works...

If it is indeed prestige that fuels the art world, then this particular gallery is where esteem is stood upright and cemented in place. Miguel understands art, where it comes from and how it exists in our society; he is fierce, vigilant and uncompromising, the ultimate painter's guardian.

Right after this shot, I touched a button on the camera that I didn't understand and all other shots were blurred. Add to this, my reticence to capitalize with obnoxious camera shots stolen from spontaneous conversations and especially when meeting new people... this will be another opening that will not be thoroughly documented photographically. No apologies, that's the way it is at the moment.

I did meet a number of very interesting people: collectors, critics, architects, local professionals... and a number of Tossa friends (Piet and Monique, Juan Carlos, Joan Planellas among others). The night ended in a Gallegan seafood restaurant close to the wharfs at the top end of the Barcelonetta. Gerry was my guest and we all had a very satisfying conversation together that ranged far and wide.

We parted ways and hooked up with in professors from the interior architecture program. Drinks in the bars of the Borne until the wee hours, a bubble of Yanquis chattering nasally in a social sea of Catalans. It was good to hear an American accent again.

A pleasant and memorable night it was.