San Sebastian - pleasure in contrast

Day 1 spends the morning in London, a late afternoon flight through a long-abandoned Terminal 4, to the Calatrava airport terminal, quickly retrieved car, dark drive through rain-soaked valleys between Bilbao and San Sebastian; posh town, unposh tapas in a local bar.

Day 2 with street breakfast baguette, strong coffee and strolling to the turn of the last century bay to find P&Y doing the same, accompanied by Xabier and Maria; Xabier proud of his city and knowing a lot. To the Euskadiko Arkitektura Institutua exhibition curated by Maria, a dark and focused Utopia in that neat and elegant Iberian gallery, and a long lazy lunch with Director Jose and his team, refined food, good local wine, relaxed and pleasant conversation. P’s evening lecture in the bright lights of a shabby chic Teatro Principal followed by more fine food and yet finer wine. Wandering back to the stylish hotel through quiet stylish streets before the storm breaks.

P’s lectures are always enjoyable; however often one is washed by them there is always a hint of the new, a reinterpretation of the past to open new vistas for the present. There is a spicing of English humour, not taking itself too seriously but making serious points, underpinned by a strongly held belief in the possible. And yet there is always a niggling reminder of the loss in translation, not of the words but of the images when transferred from the pen of the author to the digital and physical depictions of the acolytes.  That intermediate stage when ideas become manifest in digital perfection, by those who understand little of the charm of the intent. I wonder briefly how I might bridge that gap, and within my own work too, and consider again the methods of the baroque.  TM

Day 3 a night of banging window and wildly agitated trees, an absence of bins blown down the street, continuing into the morning with plans to visit shore sculptures dashed by the waves. To Chillida-Leku, Chillida’s grandson expounding faithfully but not convincingly, core ten between the showers. It isn’t Storm King, and P confesses his lack of attachment to sculpture, with which sympathies are expressed.  P&Y head off to the airport. We try the Comb of the Wind once more and are stopped short by Heras fencing, driving showers, diving into a plastic bar, savouring rolls and local cider on the stools. Siesta before we find the only jazz bar in town, the Altxerri, the strength of the morning’s workman-like culture present in the logo but missing from the popular Hollywood piano repertoire, saved by the drinks and unrecognisable finger food. Streets full now that the storm has subsided.

Maybe it’s the constraints of purpose that taint the views of architects, the absence of our free will, however unusual our output, that keeps us distant from sculpture. The creative methods can be appreciated, the forms can be liked or otherwise, but the absence of a purpose beyond self-fulfilment smacks of a disconnected wilfulness that slightly rankles. Occasionally one sees a piece that creates and defines enviable space. Occasionally one is captivated by the character that is drawn from the cold material. Yet mostly one sees a game being played by the sculptor for their own satisfaction, and I can pass that by quite quickly. TM

Day 4 takes the slow coast road to the airport, a stop at Getaria with its whale shipping dock building into the sea, its ship-hull Salbatore Deunaren Eliza church adorned with many layered timber decks, and a good basic coffee at the harbour edge bar.  A brief exchange of words at Zumaia, a dull holiday town we should have avoided in the search for Flysch. The drive beyond sees quick recovery and we’re home in London for the evening.

I find charm in the industrial Getaria, in the working boats moored by the car park hemmed by the stone-cold sheds for the treatment of fresh caught fish. By 10am the harbour activities have subsided, the doors are closed and the shutters down, a few aproned men still hosing the apron, the spinning brushes of the street sweeper sucking up discarded scales. Up on the rock the ship-like church and the lunch time restaurants come to life along the stone terraces not yet open for business. This is the interstitial moment between work on the sea and in the town.  We immerse ourselves in the deep throated talk of the older people grumbling on the outside cafe tables strewn under the deep blue dockside canopy. These are moments of reality to savour. TM

A good trip, a fine place, nice people, to be repeated when the Autumn comes again and, despite knowing the hosts so little, so much less anguish than the weekend just past, yet again in Frankfurt.

In Frankfurt, there is always the need to be on your best behaviour, to say the right thing so as not to upset, and not only through misinterpretation. There is a tension in the people, people who find light heartedness to be un-adult, the carefree to be careless, intolerant of a witty quip, dismissed as not taking life, their life, seriously enough, the search beneath words for hidden meaning that might be objectionable.  There are exceptions of course, and they know who they are for I hanker to spend time with them, for their company and to avoid the rest. TM

October 2025