Sangria and the City I: A Change of Art

Sorolla’s The Young Amphibians (Photo credits to Mary Brown) 

The Home of the Holy Grail, the Cradle of Paella, the City of Cyclists. Mary Brown documents her Year Abroad in Valencia in this column, exploring both the haute culture and slightly sillier offerings of the city.

Fluorescent paint, nattering, and wine-guzzling. My kind of a Friday night. A Belgian girl I met at pres told me about the Valencia Language Exchange’s ‘Paint and Wine in the Neon Light’ and asked if I fancied popping along. Although I am considerably artistically challenged and cannot paint to save my life, I thought that it sounded like a great chance to unwind and meet new people in the city. A few taps on my phone and a cool 21 euros later, I was going to channel my inner Picasso with some glasses of Pinot.

The setup for the evening (Photo credits to Mary Brown) 

Valencia has enjoyed a rich artistic history, stretching back long before my arrival two months ago. From its Roman founders to its Arab rulers, the city’s art and architecture have benefitted from the diversity of the cultures which have made their marks on Valencia.

 The city’s most famous artistic son is undoubtedly the gifted Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida (1863-1923). Orphaned at the age of two, Sorolla’s precocious talent led him to study in Madrid and Rome. He travelled widely, exhibiting to critical acclaim in salons from Chicago to Buenos Aires to Vienna. When he returned to Valencia, he bought a beach house, inspiring him to paint his famous scenes of the Valencian coast.

 I was lucky enough to see some of his paintings in the fantastic Philadelphia Museum of Art this summer. Sorolla’s deft use of light and shading and his gift for reproducing moments frozen in time were incredibly affecting. My favourite, The Young Amphibians, depicts young children playing at the beach. Sorolla captures the innocent and wholesome nature of childhood play and his mastery of colour allows him to expertly render a rich and textured sea.

Back to the future, I met the girls outside the Espacio Creativo Utopia, which hosts classes including life drawing, excited to get both the creative juices and the wine flowing. The staff passed around laminated cards with inspiration for us to choose from, including a neon lion or a Valencian town with orange groves. Perhaps subconsciously channelling my inner Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida, I eschewed the land-based options and chose a fluorescent jellyfish. I figured that a blue background, an oval, and some tentacles would be most appropriate for my skill level.

 Immediately, I fell into difficulty. As mentioned, I have not an iota of creative talent in my body, a genetic fault in my bloodline. When I was younger and preparing for my First Holy Communion, my mum made our family sit right at the back with a two-row buffer zone between us and the other congregants because ‘no one should have to put up with our caterwauling’. This was, in fact, a proportionate and merciful response.

 The source of my floundering vis-à-vis my jellyfish was the fact that I had forgotten the inherent fluidity of tentacles. The straight lines simply poured from my paintbrush and, before I could stop myself, my jellyfish looked as though he were on a rack in the Tower of London.

The prep stage: it goes very much downhill from here (Photo credits to Mary Brown)

 Nevertheless, I was not prepared to give up on my ever less biologically accurate jellyfish just yet. I blended, shaded, and smudged to my heart’s content and even added a Jellycat style smile to my creature. This process was made even more enjoyable by the generous servings of wine (either red or white) and the great company. Along with the two girls I already knew, I met a Dutch beautician and two British Erasmus students.

The masterpieces produced by the rest of my table (Photo credits to Mary Brown) 

 All in all, I had a top-rate experience. It was relaxing to sit and chat for a couple of hours and lovely to see just how talented some people are. The couple opposite me painted the most incredible lions and it was hilarious watching them to try and match my effusive praise of their work with compliments about my jellyfish.

The fruit of my labour: Peter the Jellyfish (Photo credits to Mary Brown) 

So, will I be the next Turner Prize winner? No chance. But do I love my jellyfish nonetheless and is he currently mounted pride of place above my radiator? Absolutely.