The sky over Madrid

I love my city, that immortal Madrid, whose skies were eternally reflected in the metaphysical scenes of a painter of Greek origin, who, although he officially worked at the Court, was never really liked by that Catholic king, born in Valladolid and who died in his private rooms at the Monastery of San Lorenzo del Escorial, Philip II, who is said to have had the enigmatic painting by Bosch, ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’, next to his bed, present throughout his painful agony: Domeniko Teotokopuli, The Greek.

Although he spent more time in Toledo, the former imperial city, where his wife’s houses are still preserved, I am particularly moved by the work of El Greco, precisely because of those skies, which, although stormy, seem to want to open up to a multitude of secrets, where perceptions become mirages, as if they were really mirrors, perhaps black ones, like the one used by the magician and astrologer of Queen Elizabeth I of England, John Dee, to show different realities.

That is precisely the sensation that those elegantly sublime skies, which rise above historic Madrid in particular, produce in me on numerous occasions, enhancing, if possible, the monumental fantasy of its seductive period architecture and provoking the most varied range of sensations in my mind.

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