The first stop was the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, the national museum with several floors of art works from around the world. I was encouraged to go directly to the second floor by an American student studying Hispanic art. She described it as the history of art in the western world revealed through Argentinian artists and subjects.
The floor began with landscapes and portraits typical of the 17th and 18th centuries. Horses and the “campo” or country were popular subjects. I particularly liked the Gaucho series by Bernaldo de Quiros who painted in the early part of the 1900s. But what’s an Argentinian gaucho in lace pants doing in an impressionist painting? This new subject in a recognized art era was startling but allowed renewed appreciation of impressionism. Peasants and workers are revered by Latin artists as represented by a poignant painting of an old woman feeding pigs in La Comida de los Cerdos by Fernando Fader. A colorful scene of breathing factories and straining dock workers by Quinquela Martin shows great sympathy for those who suffered through the industrial age. Italian last names of many of the artists reflect the huge Italian immigration to this country. The art progresses into the modern age with an unusual depiction of the Annuciation. An inflated, elongated Mary is visited by a puffy, highly feathered angel! I’m sure there was more wonderful art on other floors but the second floor is the jewel.
There’s more at The National Museum of Decorative Arts. But what’s a museum to do with such a dull sounding name? The first suggestion is to be housed in an elegant former home built around 1915 in the French Neoclassical architectural style. The second idea is to fill the home with period European furniture, tapestries, paintings and sculptures to give the viewer a sense of the life of the rich when Argentina was also wealthy. And, finally, leave the Great Hall almost empty to allow one to imagine a room full of music and dancing. This place was a lovely surprise.
Now, I’ve checked off the major museums and am wondering if that’s all there is to the art world of Buenos Aires. Oh, no, the best is yet to come – from the streets – on Sundays.
La Boca (the mouth of the river) is the home of many artists and the passionate Boca Junior soccer team (I suppose all soccer teams in Argentina are passionate). Its aging stadium gives shade to this small community located in an old warehouse district. On a Sunday afternoon, the streets fill with booths of artists, tables and chairs to relax and eat, and best of all, spontaneous tango dancing.
An often overlooked street fair is the Feria de Matadores, also held on Sundays. It originally was the country fair for farmers to sell their produce, honey, and jellies. There are also a lot of equestrian products, including silver spurs and belts. In late afternoon a horse event provides drama as riders grab a ring while standing on a galloping horse. Again, though, it was the street scene that charmed. Gauchos dance the traditional handkerchief dance by selecting women in the crowd to join them. Sidewalk cafes offer the famous parrillado (grilled meat) perfectly complemented with Argentina red wine. And families and friends walk arm in arm in the streets. Our lunch group included two retired Argentina lawyers of Italian descent and their ballerina daughter and my cousin and her husband. We talked about books, politics and opera. What a great way to pass a Sunday afternoon.
I haven’t even mentioned the crafts fair often held outside the Recoleta cemetery, the artistry of the stylish Argentinian women, or the antique area of San Telmo displaying the talents of silversmiths of the past. An entirely different subject is the European ambiance created by B.A.’s architecture. What a feast for the eyes. For a fresh look at art history and at the soul of Argentina, don’t miss the art of Buenos Aires. So, until the next column, remember “All you really have to pack is your passport and money. The rest you can buy.”
My brothers and I were never given an option. Every summer, my mother would throw her five children in the back of a Plymouth station wagon and head out to a predetermined destination in the United States. Distance didn’t matter. Seattle, Los Angeles, Colorado, South Dakota, Washington, D.C., were all in her sights. My father claimed the crops on the farm required his attention but he would still occasionally fly up and join us. By the time I left home, my brothers and I had checked off 35 states. After my mother was widowed at 46, she began to explore the world. In 1969, she planned a ten-week tour to Europe for the family, complete with the purchase of a Volkswagen van delivered to England for us. Long before faxes, cheap telephone calls or the internet, Mom used Europe on $5 a Day and the mail to reserve hotel rooms for every stop on the itinerary. We skied in Switzerland, rode into a salt mine in Austria, swam off the coast of Sorrento, Italy, and visited East Berlin at the height of the Cold War. That summer we added ten new countries to our list of places visited and I was hooked.
The tradition continued with my family. Our children did not get the traditional trips to Disney World or the beach. They bargained for panchos and backpacks in the Indian markets of Ecuador and zipped through the cloud forests of Costa Rica. Each took advantage of the Rotary exchange programs, one to Spain and the other to Japan. Family conversations today still include debates on where the next trip should be.
This will be a column on traveling but its emphasis will be on every day life, not on a day to day description of a trip with hotels and restaurants. It may cover cooking lessons in Hong Kong, or one day’s experience in the art world of Buenos Aires or even a report of immigration issues from the viewpoint of a Spanish teacher in Guatemala. Since I don’t travel on tours, I often read extensively prior to a trip. Guide books are helpful, but memoirs and literature give a greater perspective. And with the internet, you can even read local papers for the hot issues in that country. Hopefully, I can occasionally liven the column with tidbits, such as a dog poisoner is on the list of Hong Kong’s ten most wanted or that there is no word for diet in the Vietnamese language.
Through the years of traveling with my mother, we learned the world was to be enjoyed, not feared. Different is not a synonym for bad. The worst travel experiences become the best stories to tell. And travel will cure any ambivalence about the pleasures of your own home. But regardless of the length and enjoyment of our ventures, we need to return to our family and friends where a trip can be most enjoyed in the retelling. So, until the next column, remember “always pack your swim suit.”