In Barcelonetta
Thanks for the memory jog: reminds me that I have an invitation to a gallery show this evening - five Cuban painters. The link/memory jog? The gallery is up on the first floor, and you enter via a bar/restauarnt, which is anything but convenient; but that's life: location, location, location.
However, rules don't aways apply in Mallorca. The woman who runs this place has a long gallery history within Pollensa, so I guess she probably knows what's what and, as ever, you have to go by what you can afford to rent.
It's 3pm right now, and the battery is on charge, a spare card beside the camera; however, the "do" starts at 8.30pm and I have no idea about the probable state of my enthusiasm by then. However, I guess my Cuban tenor sax friend will be there, so at the very least, somebody with whom to have a usually interesting chat.
Event's such as this always come accompanied with the angst of the missing mate. And emergency driver...
https://www.espaidart32.com/ARTISTAS_CUBANOS/COLECTIVA.htmlA quick look, and you see at once why photography can never feel an equal to some of the other arts. Like or dislike the works, there's no disputing that self-expression is much stronger and better served this other way. Unfortunately for me. Maybe that's just my fifteen-year-old self coming back to the fore, looking for a fight with the older me. At least I can tell him to go back from whence he came, that I know better, that I'd never have been good enough to cut it with canvas - AFAIK.
Sometimes, it feels like reading a book from the back. My late mother - she's be a miracle if she were not late - used to do that with books; it drove me mad, but she enjoyed them just as much as ever I seemed to do. Folks, techniques.
Rob