equineocean: photography and writing

FINDING MY WAY IN BARCELONA

Barcelona seems an unfinished city, not afraid to acknowledge that nothing is ever complete. I sense this on my first night in the city, passing noisy side streets whose names mean nothing to me yet, hearing Spanish tones and occasionally a hint of something else, of the language of Catalunya.

On the following days I explore Barri Gòtic’s winding alleyways, finding unexpected squares and gazing up at tall, dark buildings. These are complete in form but living in their history, a history that is dense and yet continues to be made. In one square the wall of a church is pockmarked from the bullets of Franco’s firing squads. I look at it for a long time. The stones are cleanly white, and I trace the indentations with my eyes.

Construction continues on the Gothic Cathedral not far away, and in the square outside Catalunyan dancers take their turn on a Saturday from the breakdancers who perform here most nights. Like so many other cities, the young men are agile and brisk with their sideways baseball caps, and each one takes his leave gracefully from the pavement stage.

The ultimate in unfinished architecture is the Temple de la Sagrada Família, its eight towers rising on a hill above Barcelona. It awaits ten more towers, one of which will dwarf the others in communication with the heavens. Inside the Temple, the central nave is piled with pallets of stone, the workshop of those who continue the construction that began here 129 years ago.

Tree trunk pillars rise up to divide and branch out across the ceiling in symmetrical leafy patterns, partially obscured by scaffolding. The floor is dappled with the shadows of stone greenery. Stained glass windows in a side nave cast blocks of colour amongst the tree trunks like psychedelic sunlight. This imaginary forest is filled not with green and brown but instead with the rainbow colours that you might find, fleetingly, in the mist above a stream on a sunny day.

But there is no mist, no trees, no running water. Instead, there are innumerable types of stone from Catalunya and beyond.

From high in the towers there is a view across the suburbs, rows of three and four storey buildings in cream and pale terracotta and deep reds and grey. Amidst the mosaic of rooves there is one tall, slender tower in the distance, reflecting light from its mirrored sides.

Back in Barri Gòtic, I wander through alleys that seem straight, but on my return I find there are branches and twists and I am no longer sure if I am going the right way. Sometimes I come unexpectedly into triangular squares, like Plaça de George Orwell where the streets enter on each corner, symmetrical yet disorienting all the same. I am never quite sure what I might find as I follow first one street, then another, curious, aiming vaguely to go ‘home’, but not quite managing it.