Those Sixties Parties are all the fashion now...
Iconic finca
The Honourable Reader might be perplexed sometimes by the naming of these blogtexts. With extremely scarce exceptions all are christened with either the name of a personality or of an artist. Even if only very far off related to what I'll write about in the following half a dozen paragraphs, that Name (as if a list of Lloyds' members...) works as a kind of votive god, a paternal figure who will bless the story that follows..
These blogtexts, on the other hand, always begin with a picture. It's not an illustration for an already completed text, but the starting point of the writing process itself. The idea for the blog-of-the-day exists already for sure, normally taking shape as I'm about to turn off the morning shower. That idea, though, will have to find a suitable translation in terms of imagery, so the picture selection and photo-editing step is a crucial one.
I wanted to write about yesterday's Sixties Party who was held in a gloriously beautiful finca, in the outskirts of Madrid. A finca acquired in 1901 by the second Marquis of Urquijo, who's full name you will find as the title of this blogtext. The finca, loaded with History, would have to be the image-hero then, and yesterday's pink-bluish lights that dramatically enhanced the beauty of secular trees would have to be part of it. Easter, the host, birthday boy and scenic director of that fun-tastic party went for professional lighting of prosperous theatre standards. With those pink and silver-blue holophotes, the enclosed gardens of the finca became sets appropriable for Mozart mischievously bucolic Third Acts... An image of that finca and the recalling of those colours was therefore needed, before writing one single world in today's edition of this blog..
This piece of real estate has History, I said. And related indirectly to the mothercountry of this blogger of yours.. For in a very cold morning, on November, 9th 1948, a young boy (less than ten years old) was taken from the Villaverde train station, in Madrid, to this very same finca where I have just finished parking my car. Here ( I think to myself as I put the dinner-jacket belly corset and the jacket itself) a young Prince, who had traveled from Lisbon in the "Lusitania" express train, leaving the Estoril exile of his Father, started the journey into His Majesty status. Here, in this very finca where we are received by greedy paparazzi , by acrobats and somersaulters, eight little boys were expecting the royal highness who would be their companion in a very, very special, purpose-designed, school. A cold day in 48, a near tropical warm night in twenty-o-five.
Back to the glamorous party, in my role of chevalier servant of Ms. Seachestnut, the Galician-Andalucian celebrity thanks to whom I am having access to these very closed, almost endogamous, celebrations of le tout Madrid. The initial drinks, near Marrakshi tents, huge balloons and performing acrobats, when there was still some sunlight and the powerful pink spotlights had transfigured Nature into La Scala stuff, put us all in the right mood. Almost a regiment-size of longdressed fashionistas and black-tiers strolling around the gardens. Then the dinner, with gastronomically-diversified buffet tables, like different stage areas on a Rock-In-Rio for grown ups. Than the blowing of candles from successive normal-sized birthdaycakes presented in a quick cadenza by tiara-wearing Young Ladies, while the orchestra swinged a "Cumpleanos feliz..cumpleanos feliz..." (tatati-ta-ta-ta-ta-- happy-birthday-to-you) . Than the dancing bit itself, mostly, obviously, anglo-american sixties songs, with a twist now and then. I don't know about you, Honourable Reader, but when I'm in black varnished
black-tie shoes, I feel I've actually succeed in my dieting proverbial efforts. Like in Michael Powell's film "The Red Shoes" (back to 1948 again!) , when I feel my dear old ball shoes gloving my feet I became a disciple of Mr. Astaire. One day someone might remember me as a "gamberra guaperas bailon", and I will have scored then a diplomatic success of sorts..
Iconic finca
The Honourable Reader might be perplexed sometimes by the naming of these blogtexts. With extremely scarce exceptions all are christened with either the name of a personality or of an artist. Even if only very far off related to what I'll write about in the following half a dozen paragraphs, that Name (as if a list of Lloyds' members...) works as a kind of votive god, a paternal figure who will bless the story that follows..
These blogtexts, on the other hand, always begin with a picture. It's not an illustration for an already completed text, but the starting point of the writing process itself. The idea for the blog-of-the-day exists already for sure, normally taking shape as I'm about to turn off the morning shower. That idea, though, will have to find a suitable translation in terms of imagery, so the picture selection and photo-editing step is a crucial one.
I wanted to write about yesterday's Sixties Party who was held in a gloriously beautiful finca, in the outskirts of Madrid. A finca acquired in 1901 by the second Marquis of Urquijo, who's full name you will find as the title of this blogtext. The finca, loaded with History, would have to be the image-hero then, and yesterday's pink-bluish lights that dramatically enhanced the beauty of secular trees would have to be part of it. Easter, the host, birthday boy and scenic director of that fun-tastic party went for professional lighting of prosperous theatre standards. With those pink and silver-blue holophotes, the enclosed gardens of the finca became sets appropriable for Mozart mischievously bucolic Third Acts... An image of that finca and the recalling of those colours was therefore needed, before writing one single world in today's edition of this blog..
This piece of real estate has History, I said. And related indirectly to the mothercountry of this blogger of yours.. For in a very cold morning, on November, 9th 1948, a young boy (less than ten years old) was taken from the Villaverde train station, in Madrid, to this very same finca where I have just finished parking my car. Here ( I think to myself as I put the dinner-jacket belly corset and the jacket itself) a young Prince, who had traveled from Lisbon in the "Lusitania" express train, leaving the Estoril exile of his Father, started the journey into His Majesty status. Here, in this very finca where we are received by greedy paparazzi , by acrobats and somersaulters, eight little boys were expecting the royal highness who would be their companion in a very, very special, purpose-designed, school. A cold day in 48, a near tropical warm night in twenty-o-five.
Back to the glamorous party, in my role of chevalier servant of Ms. Seachestnut, the Galician-Andalucian celebrity thanks to whom I am having access to these very closed, almost endogamous, celebrations of le tout Madrid. The initial drinks, near Marrakshi tents, huge balloons and performing acrobats, when there was still some sunlight and the powerful pink spotlights had transfigured Nature into La Scala stuff, put us all in the right mood. Almost a regiment-size of longdressed fashionistas and black-tiers strolling around the gardens. Then the dinner, with gastronomically-diversified buffet tables, like different stage areas on a Rock-In-Rio for grown ups. Than the blowing of candles from successive normal-sized birthdaycakes presented in a quick cadenza by tiara-wearing Young Ladies, while the orchestra swinged a "Cumpleanos feliz..cumpleanos feliz..." (tatati-ta-ta-ta-ta-- happy-birthday-to-you) . Than the dancing bit itself, mostly, obviously, anglo-american sixties songs, with a twist now and then. I don't know about you, Honourable Reader, but when I'm in black varnished
black-tie shoes, I feel I've actually succeed in my dieting proverbial efforts. Like in Michael Powell's film "The Red Shoes" (back to 1948 again!) , when I feel my dear old ball shoes gloving my feet I became a disciple of Mr. Astaire. One day someone might remember me as a "gamberra guaperas bailon", and I will have scored then a diplomatic success of sorts..I enjoyed meeting one in particular of the eighteen tiara-clad lady friends of Easter that were kind of co-hostesses. A charming Sultan-like idea, which I congratulated the host for. I wish I could have been privy to their preparatory meetings.. Eighteen women on a room, discusssing silk cloth and hairdress style while a poor man is trying on his own to instill some operative efficiency to the discussions..
I collected, as ever, some good anecdotes, not all politica-gaymarriagetimes-ly corrected, I should add.. Some might be told in due e-time... The Honourable Reader will have to be patient, and display some fidelity to this blog.. In the end, it always pays to be faithful...
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