In the beautifully sedative dry heat of my 36 hours in Barcelona, I found a momentary appreciation for Bohemian abandon and, most shockingly, for bare legs (those of you who have been reading for a while will know how absolutely outrageous this is). The latter came only after an evening of indignant allegiance to my newfound blue suede love of a jacket in the face of a solid 35 degrees Celcius, and hundreds of bodies packed into Barcelona’s Stadio Olympico for Mango’s new collection show. While it was not a disastrous degree of perspiration on a scale of dewy to extreme embarrassment, I was defeated enough to strip down the following morning while exploring the area surrounding Mirador on foot. I’ll admit I only got halfway there – a leather skirt in this kind of heatwave doesn’t bode so well – but you know… we’re learning.
Back to business.
For a photographer, the first thing you notice about a city when you’re travelling is usually the architecture, but then it’s always the light. Even when there is tapas involved. One of the main reasons Australia produces so many photographers is because of our amazing golden hours in the morning and early evening, that inspire creative eyes to capture imagery. Barcelona’s light casts a poetic and dusty golden filter over everything throughout the day. Unlike Paris, whose shadows always seem to be blue, Spanish shade is red and earthy, and super conducive to wearing muted tones of mustard, burnt orange powder blue and khaki – all of which are dominating my suitcase-wardrobe this week, which is just as well. Sadly, I didn’t have enough time (or jetlagged energy) to see the necessary likes of Sagrada Familia and Park Guëll before my flight out to Austria, but for the time being, this hilarious tableau of two hungover oranges, comatose with their empty bottles at sunrise, was quite sufficient until an inevitable second visit, and hopefully a longer stay.