The Russian Connection

Just before we got to Málaga, Karen was reading a mystery novel set in the Costa del Sol. Málaga is the gateway to this stretch of the southern Meditteranean coast. Its cheesey highrise beach towns - Torremolinos, Fuengirola, Marbella, etc. – are home to tens or hundreds of thousands of expat northern Europeans, and are a huge lure for winter visitors.

The novel suggested the area was hopelessly crime-ridden and violent. That in particular, it was a haven for the Russian mafia, which operates here almost with impunity. He was of course exaggerating for effect. We didn’t expect to see any sign of this on the ground. But one of the first things we did discover here was the existence of a brand new Russian museum, a branch plant of the State Russian Museum in St. Petersburg. Since that museum is an agency of Putin’s kleptocracy, I suppose it is an emblem of Russian-based crime in the region.

This was nevertheless Shelley’s choice for our activity of the day on Tuesday. I was more than happy to go along as the temporary exhibit right now is about Wassily Kandinsky, the great Russian abstractionist of the early 20th century, and one of my favourites. I can never go to the Met in New York without standing for awhile in front of the fabulous Kandinskys in its collection.

The Málaga museum is in an old tobacco factory in the suburbs. On the map, it looked like a reasonable walk, and it was, but it was a little longer than we thought: about 4 kilometers. We walked down through the old city to the harbour, past the ferris wheel, then out west (and south) along the seafront, through the commercial port. Some of the route wasn’t very picturesque, but we eventually came to a suburban beach area with restaurants and bars and locals out enjoying the sunny holiday.

Signposting for the museum was not great, but we did eventually find it. It’s housed in a complex that also includes an automotive museum. Either they had moved some of the collection outside on this sunny day, or they were sponsoring an antique car rally – possibly a bit of both. In any case, there were 20 or 30 gorgeously restored old cars parked in the forecourt, glinting in the sun. Shelley and Karen sat at a little outdoor café and had a coffee and some kind of bun while I photographed the cars.

The Russian museum was good. Or I should say, the Kandinsky exhibit was good. It attempts to show the influences in his work of his Russian-ness, and does it quite effectively by showing early figurative works alongside the kinds of folk art and religious icons that inspired his use of colour in particular. And alongside works by other Russian artists of the day.

The exhibit is not a retrospective, though. Its chronology ends when Kandinsky left Russia for good in 1923 (he died in 1944 in France.) As a result, it’s a little light on mature masterpieces. The cover painting for the Bluereiter manifesto is here, and some later abstracts. But there is nothing as mesmerizing or joyfully colourful as the Met’s Kandinsky’s. Still, I’ll take it.

The other exhibit uses art and artifacts to trace the history of the Romanov royal dynasty in 17th through early 20th century Russia. Much of the art was ordinary at best. IMHO. There were some very impressive story pictures in 19th century realistic style, mostly of battle scenes and other historical subjects, though. (The one below is called "The Hen Party.") The history didn’t interest me that much, and the art was uninspiring. I did what I rarely do in galleries, galloped through to the end, leaving my companions behind. It’s usually me that straggles out last.

We wimped out and took a cab back into the city. We walked around the centre for a half hour or more, looking for a place to have a light lunch. We finally settled in an outdoor tapas bar and had just-okay tapas and drinks. By then it was late afternoon and we were all tired, so we headed back to the apartment for the evening. I cooked our market sausages, which were tasty but a tad greasy.

The next day, the Wednesday, was Shelley’s last with us in Málaga. She was leaving for Marbella in the early afternoon to meet up with some Canadian friends who winter in a village near there. It was mid-morning by the time we got going. The big activity of the day was a return to Alfajar, the ceramics shop, for Shelley to buy her wedding gift, and Karen to, maybe, splurge on a new purse. I left the ladies to it and went out into the sun and shot pictures of the cathedral.

It turned out it would cost Shelley an arm and a leg to have the bowl she’d selected shipped home, so she decided to have them pack it up and she’d take it on the plane home with her carry-on stuff. Karen, meanwhile, had decided she would buy her purse, and did, and was very pleased with it. I thought it looked like a 19th century soldier’s ammunition pouch, except for the pieced leather design, and the shoulder strap. While Shelley’s bowl was being wrapped, we sat at a nearby café. Or the ladies did. I did only briefly, then got up to take more pictures.

Once we’d collected Shelley’s package, we meandered back to the flat, stopping on the way so Shelley could buy rolls to make sandwiches for the 45-minute cab ride to Marbella. (Yes, of course, there were public transit options available, but Shelley is Shelley. She would take a cab from the taxi rank just up the street from us. Convenient no doubt, but it ended up costing her €65.)

We had an hour and a half or so back at the ranch, then we walked Shelley up to the cab rank, saw her off the premises and went home for lunch.

In the afternoon, we walked down to the beach and sat on a park bench reading our books in the sun. My god, what a pathetic couple of old duffers! We watched two big dragon-boat-size rowing vessels – I think they’re patterned on rescue boats - with seated rowers on either side. They were obviously training for a race. We also marveled at the crazy northern Europeans sunbathing in swimsuits, despite the rapidly cooling breeze. Some weren’t young either. One couple who had been lying out on the sand most of the time we were there – well, she was most of the time strutting around, showing off her trim bikini-clad body – came and sat briefly on a bench near us while they packed up. They were in their forties, I’d say.

When the breeze got too cool even for sweaters and long pants, we packed up too and walked home via the Roman theatre and the cathedral. More picture taking ensued.