Guggenheim, Bilbao

(Scroll down for Afrikaans and photos)
In my young and serious youth I bought a Lotte Lenya LP on which she sings Bertold Brecht songs. Composed by Kurt Weill. One of the cuts which boomed through our house every day was the Bilboa Song, from The Three Penny Opera.

Bill’s beer hall in Bilbao, Bilbao, Bilbao,
Was the most fantastic place I’ve ever known.
For just a dollar you’d get all you wanted,
All you wanted, all you wanted
Of whatever kind of joy you called your own.

And I always longed to see the city in cabaret context. Dirty. Factories. Lost souls. But also the place where you can get all the joys you want for just a few dollars.

In the interim I became a fan of architect Frank Gehry with his apparently chaotic works with elements of deconstruction. But who, in my view, takes aesthetics to its zenith.

Since Gehry’s Guggenheim Art Museum was built, Bilboa has always been high on my bucket list. There was a previous attempt to visit it, but then we fell in love with the Pyrenees and we didn’t get there. For this trip it was right at the top of the list. We booked accommodation blindly on airbnb and were much surprised when we opened the curtains… There stood the museum, a stone’s throw from us, on the other side of the river.

Where previously there had been a dirty harbour, back streets, a ghetto, a sculpture was created through Gehry’s design which is sensitive to its environment and has left behind the industrial past. As if it has grown organically from the river. No, as if it has always been there.

Early evening we walked downhill. And there she was. It became a dream evening with a halfmoon hanging over the titanium scales, the stone, steel and glass ship in full sail. No, not a sailing ship. Not a flagship. A fish. Because that was Gehry’s inspiration. His memories of visiting the fish market with his mother, buying fish and then keeping it in the bath till later.

We approached the building like an altar. With respect. With piety. We sat on the opposite bank of the Nervión River for a long time to take in the whole complex with its walkways, trees and reflections. The river has become an integral part of the design. Also the bridge, the sculptures, the steam sculpture which blasts steam over the water with an underground roar every hour, and the five flame fountains which blow long hissing tongues of flame upwards every ten minutes, reflecting against the buildings and the water.

Darkness caught up with us. But we couldn’t tear ourselves away. From every angle there is another configuration, another reflection. Other titanium colours. Awed, we finally returned to the flat at 11:00. Still couldn’t believe that we were actually there.

The next morning we were back at the museum. First, we walked across the bridges and observed the building from the heights. Tickets purchased, we entered. The first thing you do is just to stand there, look up, see the atrium filling the place with light, stare at steel, glass, endless spaces and curves. It takes you some time to collect yourself and to find your own space within that space.

One of the spaces you lose yourself in is the great hall with Richard Serra’s Matter of time – a series of massive iron curves. You walk through the art work, lose yourself in spaces, bends, patinas, textures and colours. The realisation that erosion plays a role, is overwhelming. Also in your own life, that nothing endures forever. You start by walking the artwork chronologically, ever further and deeper. Then you have to turn around and follow your own routes. That is when you begin a metaphysical journey. Travel through your memories, and know that that, too, will pass. Come to an end.

I can expand and expand and, perhaps, one day my words will run out.

There were also the Masterpieces of the Guggenheim Museum which were overwhelming. It offered me the opportunity to stand before great and well-known pieces and become still. There was Robert Motherwell’s highly expressive work on the tragedies of the Spanish Civil War – one large canvas in black with a small white space in the bottom corner – and then in juxtaposition Yves Klein’s Large Blue Anthropometry, Andy Warhol’s iconic screen prints of Marilyn Monroe. In addition one of my favourites, Gerhard Richter – a photo painting, as if out of focus. Anselm Kiefer’s giant Renowned order of the night catches you unawares, just as Mark Rothko’s untitled red and yellow plains. And many more.

We spent hours drifting about, looked at other exhibitions, but all the while under the impression of the spaces, and the knowledge that the building itself is an artwork.
We returned again in the early evening. The building in a very different mood. Dark. Then you can see other planes, other colours against the evening clouds. We lingered and lingered. Up and down bridges. Up and down stairs. Walked around the entire complex. Saw the sun set over the river. The fish. The triumphant sailing ship. Only your memory burns bright.

The next morning we rode across the bridge on Silver and Blue and looked for one last time at the building, in yet another mood. Bright and shiny in the morning sun. And I sang:

Bills Ballhaus in Bilbao
war das schönste auf dem ganzen Kontinent.
Dort gab’s für einen Dollar Krach und Wonne,
und was die Welt ihr Eigen nennt.
Aber wenn Sie da hereingekommen wären,
ich weiß nicht, ob Ihnen so was grad gefällt.
Ach!

In my jong en ernstige lewe koop ek‘n Lotte Lenya langspeelplaat waar sy Bertold Brecht liedere sing. Deur Kurt Weill gekomponeer. Een van die snitte wat elke dag deur ons huis gedawer het was die Bilboa Song, uit The Three Penny Opera.

Bill’s beer hall in Bilbao, Bilbao, Bilbao,
Was the most fantastic place I’ve ever known.
For just a dollar you’d get all you wanted,
All you wanted, all you wanted
Of whatever kind of joy you called your own.

En ek het altyd gehunker om die stad te sien in kabaretverband. Vuil. Fabrieke. Verlooptes. Maar ook dat jy vir net ‘n paar dollars alle vreugdes wat jy wil hê, daar kan kry.

Intussen het ek ‘n aanhanger van argitek Frank Gehry geword met sy oënskynlike chaotiese werke met elemente van dekonstruksie. Maar in my oë estetika tot ‘n hoogtepunt voer.

Na die bou van die Gehry se Guggenheim Kunsmuseum, was Bilbao nog altyd hoog op my emmerskoplys. Daar was ‘n vorige poging om dit te besoek, maar toe raak ons verlief op die Pirennieë en kom toe nooi daar uit nie. Vir hierdie reis staan dit toe bo aan die lys. Ons bespreek blindelings ‘n oorslaapplek op airbnb en groot is ons verbasing toe ons die gordyne ooptrek… Daar lê die museum klipgooi onder ons aan die oorkant van die rivier.

Daar waar eers ‘n vuil hawe was, agterstrate, ‘n ghetto, is met Gehry se ontwerp ‘n beeldhouwerk geskep wat sensitief teenoor die omgewing staan en het dit die industriële verlede agtergelaat. Asof dit organies vanuit die rivier gegroei het. Nee, asof dit nog altyd daar was.

Ons stap vroegaand bergaf. En daar is sy. Dit word ‘n droomaand met ‘n halfmaan wat oor die titaniumskubbe, klip-, staal- en glasskip in volle vaart, hang. Nee, nie ‘n seilskip nie. Nie ‘n vlagskip nie. ‘n Vis. Want dit was Gehry se inspirasie. Sy herinneringe om saam met sy ma vismark toe te gaan, vis te koop, en dan is dit tuis in die bad gesit.

Ons benader die gebou soos ‘n altaar. Met eerbied. In aanbidding. En eers lank aan die oorkant van die Nerviónrivier gaan sit om die volle kompleks met wandelpaaie, bome en weerkaatsings in te neem. Die rivier het ‘n integrale deel van die ontwerp geword. Ook die brug, die beeldhouwerke, die stoom wat elke uur oor water met ‘n ondergrondse geraas blaas, en die vyf vlamfonteine wat elke tien minute sissend lang vuurtonge uitblaas wat teen die geboue en water weerkaats.

Die donker het ons ingehaal. Maar ons kon ons nie wegskeur nie. Uit elke hoek is daar ‘n ander konfigurasie, ‘n ander kaatsing. Ander titaniumkleure. Ons het daardie aand eers verwonderd om 11:00 by die huis gekom. Kon steeds nie glo dat ons daar was nie.
Die volgende oggend is ons weer museum toe. Eers oor die brûe gestap en die gebou vanuit hoogtes bekyk. Kaartjies gekoop en toe die gebou ingestap. Dan staan jy eers stil, kyk op, sien die atrium waardeur lig val, kyk jou vas in staal, glas, eindelose ruimtes en kurwes. Dit neem jou lank om tot verhaal te kom en jou eie ruimte binne daardie ruimte te vind.

Een van die ruimtes waarin jy jouself verloor is die groot saal met Richard Serra se Matter of time – ‘n reeks massiewe yster kurwes. Jy stap deur die kunswerke, raak verlore in ruimtes, draaie, patinas, teksture en kleure. Die besef dat erosie ‘n rol speel is oorweldigend. Ook jou eie lewe, en dat niks vir ewig kan duur nie. Eers loop jy kronologies en verder en dieper deur die beeeldhouwerk, maar dan moet jy omdraai en ander roetes volg. Dit is wanneer jy met ‘n metafisiese reis begin. Reis jy deur jou herinneringe, en weet dat dít ook dit sal vergaan. Tot ‘n einde sal kom.
Ek kan uitbrei en uitbrei en my woorde sal miskien eendag opraak.

Daar was ook die Meesterstukke van die Guggenheim Museum wat oorweldigend was. Dit het vir my kans gegee om voor groot en bekende werke stil te staan en stil te word. Daar is Robert Motherwell se hoogs ekspressiewe werk oor die tragedies van die Spaanse Burgeroorlog – een groot doek in swart met ‘n klein wit ruimte – en dan in jukstaposisie Yves Klein se Large Blue Anthropometry, teenoor Andy Warhol se ikoniese sifdrukke van Marilyn Monroe. Verder een van my gunstelinge, Gerhard Richter – ‘n asof uit fokus fotoskildery. Anselm Kiefer se reuse Renowned order of the night vang jou onverhoeds, net soos Mark Rothko se ongetitelde rooi en geel vlakke. En vele meer.

Ons het ure en ure rondgewaal, na ander uitstallings gekyk, maar die heel tyd onder die indruk van die binneruimtes om jou gebly, en die wete dat die gebou self ‘n kunswerk is.
Ons is weer vroegaand terug. Die gebou in ‘n heel ander bui. Donker. Dan sien jy ander vlakke, ander kleure teen die aandwolke. Ons draal en draal. Brug op. Brug af. Tappe op. Trappe af. Stap om die hele kompleks. Sien hoe die son sak oor die rivier. Die vis. Die triomfantelike seilskip. En dis net jou belewenis wat helder brand.

Die volgende oggend vroeg ry ons met Silwer en Blou oor die brug en kyk vir oulaas na die gebou wat weer in ‘n ander bui is. Blink en helder in die oggendson. En ek sing:

Bills Ballhaus in Bilbao
war das schönste auf dem ganzen Kontinent.
Dort gab’s für einen Dollar Krach und Wonne,
und was die Welt ihr Eigen nennt.
Aber wenn Sie da hereingekommen wären,
ich weiß nicht, ob Ihnen so was grad gefällt.
Ach!

First evening

Richard Serra’s Matter of time – a series of massive iron curves.

The next morning

We went back that evening, and she was in a sombre mood

Some of the Masterpieces

Streets of Bilbao