Art & I & Art

Or, why do I always have this internal struggle?

This year’s ARCO logo. 2014.

AOG, Madrid

This past weekend Madrid held its international art fair: ARCO. This art fair has been an annual event for me ever since I moved to Spain.

I have gone every year since then to every single one, and every year I walk away thinking to myself, ‘Why the Hell don’t I start doing that?’.

By “that” I am referring to art, in whichever way you wish to define it.

And art and I have had a very tormented relationship from the very start. And it goes on today.

There are many reasons why I don’t live and work as an artist.

And I dislike every single one of them, yet, that has always been, to use a well-worn euphemism, the story of my life.

The cruel beginnings…

When I was a young kid I asked my mother to let me take drawing classes.

I remember going to my first-ever drawing lesson.

I remember the anticipation, the nerves I felt then. The joy inside of me as I anticipated what was to happen.

As a kid, nothing made happier than drawing. I loved it.

I remember that I read somewhere that there was an art academy near where we lived. Maybe it was just a poster, or an ad in a magazine. And I remember pestering my mother to let me go to drawing classes.

After my mother tired of hearing me, she allowed for this to happen. And I was over the moon.

It was a complete fiasco.

We went to the academy in question and I saw several tables with children pouring over their work. I was very excited because I’d soon be learning what they were learning, and I’d be working alongside them. It was going to be my first extracurricular activity ever.

Madame Mère (as I like to call her theses days) and I were shown around the academy, the director explaining to her what the children were doing at that particular moment.

And what were the children drawing?

They, all of them, were drawing a picture of a mountain top and the moon.

Circle and triangle. Basic.

And it seems like that is all they had been drawing and all that they were going to draw for a long time.

My mother asked about this, and she was told, again, that until the children learned how to do that well, that was all they were going to do.

“Only that picture?”

“Yes, only that picture.”

My mother thanked the director for her time and said she would think about it.

She didn’t drop me off at the academy that day, as I had been expecting to happen; she didn’t say she’d be picking me up later. 

She didn’t do any of the things I thought were going to happen.

instagram: @tony4sure

Once outside, or in the car, or the elevator, or wherever it was that we were at when we were alone, I asked her about what had just happened. 

Why wasn’t I being dropped off? What was happening?

I don’t remember her exact words but it was something along the lines of ‘I don’t think they have a very good idea about how to teach drawing to a child’.

She really didn’t like the thought of me doing just one painting over and over.

I, on the other hand, would have killed at the chance to do just that. But it was not to be. She had seen a problem with the academy and dismissed it. And for some reason, she never bothered to find another one.

Now it would be unfair to say she didn’t encourage my sister and I to express our creative side.

Although I never went to art class, Madame Mère did spend hundreds of dollars, if not thousands, paying for art supplies throughout our entire childhood.

Instagram: @tony4sure

She paid for ballet school, piano lessons, acting lessons.

Only as an adult, when I went to live in London, did I take a photography lesson.

And ever since then, photography has been with me as a sort of surrogate for drawing.

But I still draw. Badly. Awkwardly. Furtively. But passionately.

With time, my drawings became more about designing things.

When we first came to Europe in 1988, for some strange reason, I decided I would start drawing buildings.

Ever the frustrated architect, I was content to draw skyscrapers, cut out the shapes, as though they were paper dolls, and ‘assemble’ them.

I had already started designing cars a couple of years before. And shoes. And clothes. And furniture. But I never trusted my drawing skills. And I never took it seriously. So I never did anything with it. I just drew. I just draw.

But I take art seriously. I take my photography seriously. And my writing. And my acting. And I recently joined a choir, and I take that seriously too. Just as I took music seriously when I had a magnificent keyboard I never learned how to play well. I am also a frustrated composer.

But I am a great reader. And all of those years I read about art. And then I did a BA in Art History (and History with a philosophy minor). 

And I combined that degree with photography, and my love of all the arts. And you can see the results online. Follow me on instagram for the more immediate images: @tony4sure.

Being an artist.

For years, as one does, I never thought of myself as an artist. I was just doing what everyone else did -so I believed.

I used to think that since I liked art, so did everyone else.

Since I could draw, so could everyone else.

Since I could dance, and sing, and act, and all the rest, so could everyone else.

Realizing that was just not the case took me years.

Not so much a rude awakening as a realization: not everyone is an artist.

But was I an artist? Or was I just artistic?

I was an actor, a singer, a writer, even a half-assed musical composer when sitting at the keyboard, but an artist?

It took a while before the dots connected.

The proper thank you.

I have to thank London for telling me what I was. For opening my eyes. For slapping me in the face with what was there.

You see, London, like any major metropolitan area, attracts its fair share of talented people.

And talented people are excellent at recognizing talent in others, and extremely adept at letting you know when it is not there. Cruel in fact.

And it was a group of those people who told me what I had never been able to see myself: that I was an Artist. 

That I had always been one.

But it took a while before I accepted this about myself.

Weird, right?

Instagram: @tony4sure

 I was informed that I didn’t take photographs just because I pointed the camera and pressed the shutter. I had compositions. Angles. I was producing images, not just photographs.

I could act, and embody a character. I could express feelings through movement as a dancer. I could write poetry, and prose. I was a producer of art, not just a consumer.

And I should have gone to Art School. RADA, or Central St Martin’s, or the Royal Academy of Art. But I didn’t.

Why?

Because I was not an artist in my head. Art was something everyone did. Hence, I undervalued it greatly.

But I wanted, still want, to learn. And to produce art.

As a designer, I wanted to learn about CAD. Not programming, just using this wonderful program to make my car designs look real. Or professional. Or just better.

But couldn’t. And didn’t.

So these days, I channel my impulses as best I can.

Instagram: @tony4sure

And most of the time I am happy with the exercise (if not necessarily the actual output).

But now and again, I go to an art gallery, or a museum, or some exhibition somewhere, and I kick myself for not being an artist.

For not working as one.

Or, perhaps, what I am kicking myself about is really for not having been clever enough to convince a gallerist to buy my photographs, for not being a writer in print (though I am in print as a journalist).

For not getting that recognition which, as an actor, I do get when I perform with my improv colleagues.

For lacking that confidence and living with that internal struggle.

But, you know what? Perhaps it is the struggle which keeps me writing, and acting, and reading, and taking photographs, and all the rest.

Because being an artist is so many things…

 

Resolutions 2014

A new year but with the same hopes

AOG, Madrid

My Christmas vacation started off with me flying to London a few days before and ended with me flying back to Madrid from Barcelona airport a couple of days ago.

In between both airports, as is customary since I relocated to Spain and met my other half, we spend part of the holiday season in the UK, both in London and in rural Oxfordshire, and part of it in northern Spain, mostly Bilbao and coastal Cantabria.

Then, once the family duties are done, we relocate to the Catalan coastal town of Sitges for a couple of days of rest before facing the year ahead. Yes, we both end up shattered and fatigued after all the travelling, the gifting, the emotional encounters with family, friends, each other, &c.

I left sunny Barcelona and landed in a cold and rainy Madrid thinking about the year ahead. About my career, my life, my plans. The challenges ahead, the things I’ve left behind.

I realised that, basically, since my 20s, I’ve been consciously trying to do the same thing, year after year: achieve something.

Achievement is, naturally, defined and applied to whatever new task happens to pop up in my life, and it is not always reached… though I have been known to surprise myself.

I was talking to a friend of mine just after I got back to Madrid and the subject came up: New Year Resolutions.

Only last year, and for the first time ever, I actually took out a piece of paper and wrote down a few lines.

I forgot, or redefined, or lost, most of them as the year landed squarely on my lap and brushed aside most of my good intentions.

But two in particular kept popping into my head throught the entire 12 months the year lasted.

First, writing.

My actual resolution was to write 12 short stories in one year. One per month. That did not happen.

I ended up writing about 3. But then I also co-wrote a script for a short film, and, back in November, I participated in NANOWRIMO.

No, I did not finish a 50K word novel in 30 days.

But something else happened. I took up an old, forgotten, sci fi novel I had started to write in my very early 20s.

Along the way, it has grown, changed, and been re-started a couple more times.

But, for the time being, it is incarnating itself semi successfully. I’m not sure about when I’ll finish it, but I want to continue writing it. This is an achievement in itself.

Unfortunately, those things which always get in the way of writing (you know, life, work, shit) are still there.

I had this idea that I could do some writing during the Christmas season. I even took my laptop all over the place in the off chance I would get some time to do a bit of writing. No such luck.

However, that thing I do when I write, think about the story, did went on. I kept thinking, and have kept thinking, about the story, the characters, the twist, throughout.

Then my partner told his 12 year old niece that I was writing a novel, and two days later she was asking me about it. She is the only person who actually knows what it is about, other than me. And the best compliment was when she told me she wanted to read it.

Of course, at the tender age of 12, she got a ‘doctored’ version of it. And She may have to reach 17 before she can actually read it. But I’m glad she was interested.

www.fofothing.com/polo

The other thing I wrote down has a lot to do with me personally.

I wrote down “Be more sociable”.

Not that I am not sociable. I love society. I love socialising. Meeting friends. Doing things. Going places.

But unfortunately, I am not always in the mood to do any of that. Usually because I am tired. Or not interested on what is being offered. Or unwell. Or whatever other cheap excuse I can think of to redeploy inside and stay home and not see anybody during daylight hours…

However, more and more, this past year I tried continuosly to put my initial distate for the things I dislike aside, and endeavored to concentrate instead on enjoying my friend’s company whenever it is offered -which is often.

Unfortunately for me, I’m still too stupidly shy, or coy, or reticent, or whatever the hell is wrong with me, to actually call friends up and seek them out.

Yes, that thing that normal people do on a regular basis I tend to find difficult. Not always. Not all the time. But now and again. Here and there.

But, throughout 2013, whenever somebody called me, whenever I saw their name on the phone’s screen, I did my best to just pick up and agree to meet, putting all of me aside and just doing it.

I can’t say that I did that all of the time. But I did do it. And certainly I did it more often than in 2012, or 2011.

Perhaps I take my cue from my mother. When we were kids, she was the eternal social butterfly (Gemini).

Her social calendar was always chock-a-block with dates, parties, dinner engagements, social events, etc.

But I also recall how she used to complain that she needed time off. I remember how people would call home and ask for her, and she would sometimes say in a low voice, or just mouthing the words, ‘I am not here’. 

And the message would be passed on.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t tired, she just wanted to be left alone for a short while. She needed some ‘me’ time.

These days she has become very much a hermit, and her social calendar is mostly devoid of dates, other than whenever my sister and I ask to see her.

Nevertheless, last year she told me very clearly she was not flying to Spain to see me on my birthday.

She had a long list of excuses, but basically, she is not where she was when she was in her 20s or 30s, or 40s.

She is aging. She is somewhere else.

But back to me.

Last year I was able to combine my social life, such as it was, with my writing. I would meet with friends from the writing group I belong to and agree to set up a writing time and date. Usually a Saturday afternoon, somewhere in one of the city’s cafés.

This allowed me to write, to create, and be social, at the same time.

Onwards to the new year.

So, this year, my resolutions have not been written down yet, but those two will certainly head the list.

1- Write. Finish the novel. Do the short stories. Continue going to the writer’s group once a week.

2- Be more sociable. Even more. And again. One more time.

And I’ll add a couple more.

Exercise some more.

Watch my weight.

Make more friends. One can never have enough of those.

Read. Yes, read. A writer writes. Also, a writer reads. And reads a lot.

By the author of this post. Ralph Lauren, Fall 2o13.

Draw.

Create.

This one has been on my mind for a couple of months now.

I started doing some fashion illustration last year sometime in late September.

The drawing bug is within me once again. 

I’ve even thought about setting up a blog to upload the sketches. Maybe even invest some time in learning how to fully operate Photoshop, or even learn about Corel Draw.

Be healthy. Live healthy.

Improve my career. Move to Barcelona to be closer to my partner. These, in fact, go hand in hand.

Acting. Don’t give up on improv, in spite of all the problems and drawbacks concerning the course.

Join a choir and sing some.

Blog more in the abscence of all else.

I have even considered going back to University, although this last one belongs to late 2013.

I have to decide on whether I want to do a doctorate, which I do but have no time for.

Or start a new degree, which I do but have no time for. Psychology is always very appealing.

And it is only January!

Revenge. Forgiveness. Us.

Behold the power of resentment…

AOG, Madrid

A couple of days ago I met up with a couple of friends. New friends. People I had just met but which seemed to have struck an equal chord with me.

So there we were, at Café Figueroa, Madrid’s first openly gay coffee shop, establised as it was in 1981, talking about things.

We spoke about the current economic crisis, Spanish politics, the influence of Germany on Europe’s economy, the phantom (or prospect) of Catalonia’s and Scotland’s independence, and after all this, we began to talk about childhood. About our experience of life as gay children.

Our stories, although they were lived out in different cultures, different places and countries, were still extremely similar because of the homophobic element of our peers.

Turns out, (surprise!) that children are little homophobic monsters, just like their parents.

All children? No. Not all children.

Part of our conversation versed on the fact that a small group of bullies had decided that we were gay and had, somehow, a God-given (or Santan-given) right to make our lives hell, but, also, not all children. 

 Not all of our classmates. Only some.

“The usual ones”, said one of my new friends.

He then went on to talk about how it wasn’t just children. He told me a horrible tale about his youth in a small town in rural Spain, about 15 years ago.

Image taken at the ARCO Art Fair in Madrid, 2006.

Turns out that around the age of 18, he told his friends that he was gay.

“They all ran away from me on the spot. I don’t mean that they stopped talking to me, which came the next day and continues to this day. I mean that as soon as they heard the words they took off. They ran away!”

He then told me that he did the same, trying to get to his house before the gossip came in through the airways and his parents found out about it from other people.

He didn’t tell me about what his parents told him at the time. He just went on.

“What amazes me most is the fact that they could not wait to tell every one in town about it. Including my boss. They all got into a car and drove all the way to the bar where I worked, which was in another town. They went and told my boss I was gay. And when I got to work, I was told I no longer worked there.”

I was aghast.

Of course, he left town soon after.

Why?

Well, the locals would do that thing which tends to happen in small towns. Not so much make his life hell, but just talk about him whenever he walked past. Criticise him in front of his parents and family. And their friends.

And he moved on.

 

So I asked, ‘did you ever talk to them again?’

He said yes, one of them. A couple of years ago one of his friends walked up to him when he was visiting his parents, and started talking to him. He was getting married and invited him to the wedding.

‘Did he apologize?’, I asked.

“He did, but I didn’t accept his apology. I don’t need it.”

And at that point we started a different conversation.

On the one corner, one of them arguing on behalf of his partner, and on the other me, arguing for forgiveness.

“They don’t need to be forgiven. Shouldn’t be. They were cowards.”

“But don’t you think that it takes a lot of courage to say you are sorry?”

“Maybe so, but what about what we go through? They should have known better.”

“But think about the time you were 18, or 8, aren’t you sorry about some of the things you did?”

“Yes I am, but less so about those I did when I was 18.”

“But 18 is still pretty much a kid.”

“I don’t agree. They should have known better.”

“But they only reflect what society does with us.”

“Exactly. So now we do it.”

“But if someone is asking for forgiveness… they are suddenly giving you all the power. Suddenly you have the upper hand. If you don’t forgive them, then you are exacting revenge.”

“Then that is what I’m doing, but that is not what I’m doing really. I am just not forgiving something which should not have ocurred but did.”

“But then you are just resentful, that can’t be healthy.”

“I disagree. We are talking about something I don’t need. I don’t need their apology. I have, we have, lived without it for a long time, so that now, if they offer it, it is just without meaning.”

“But it does have meaning. Especially to them.”

“Doesn’t matter. Not to me. Do you need to hear the apologies of those who made your childhood hell?”

“Well, I’ve never been in that position, but I would love for it to happen. Not because I want to forgive anyone in particular, but because it would signal to me that they achieved a certain level of maturity, and that they realized they did something which was very wrong. I think I would forgive them right away, like I think I do when somebody says they are sorry.”

The conversation afterwards pretty much remained along those lines, and then he, my new friend, began to tell me his reasoning behind the ‘apology’.

“He has children now. Two boys. Maybe now he is thinking that one of them could be gay. That it could happen to him. And that is why he apologised, not because he felt bad about what he did, but because he is probably afraid that it might happen to his own children.”

www.fotothing.com/polo

And then, he also told me –and here human nature did amaze me a bit– that he had had an opportunity to “wreck” one of his ex-friend’s life, but didn’t. And wouldn’t.

“One of them asked me once not to say anything about what I had seen. And I didn’t. But I wasn’t planning on doing so anyway. It is none of my business, and it’s his life anyway.”

“What was it that you’d seen?”

“I’d seen him at a gay bar in another town, canoodling with another man.”

“And…”

“And he still lives in our town, and is married and has children. And every time I go there he goes out of his way to avoid me, and looks shit scared to see me.”

Our conversation ended about 30 minutes after all of this went on.

We were trying to be nice with each other since we’d just met, and clicked, but here was this different approach to this situation.

We just accepted that each of us had a different way of looking at things, and moved on.

We didn’t fall out but there was a different perspective which was at odds with the perspective opposite. I could tell there was a lot of resentment in what one of them had told me, and his partner had merely defended his partner’s point of view, although hinting here and there that he too had a similar tale to tell. 

As do most gay men and women today.

I write this not to judge them in any way, since we all have to walk our own path.

I write this because I liked the fact that, in spite of it all, we all try to be good people, except we all define ‘good’ in a different way. I would not ever say that these guys were anything but good, in as much as I can tell about somebody I’ve had coffee and a conversation with over the space of a couple of hours.

We all try to do the right thing, however we define what that is, and in spite of so many things.

And although I might be very adept at accepting apologies, I wonder about what I would have done if ‘incriminating’ information about one of my childhood torturers had come into my hands.

Would I be so benign?

 

Making Friends

AOG, Madrid

It was easy (ish) as a kid, a teen, even in your early 20s…but now?

 

I remember one of the first things I ever learned about myself, and it came straight out of my mother’s mouth.

“If he doesn’t have any friends, he is not going to do well in school.”

Was she right?

Well, ever since she told me this around the time I was seven, I have been fighting with her insight.

Does having friends ensure that you do well in school?

How about work?

Does having friends at work help or hinder your experience? And your output?

Of course, as a child, most- if not all- of your friends were the people you went to school with. A child has a very limited exposure to many social situations and is completely dependent upon parents to socialize to a large extent.

As you grow older, the bulk of your friends is still school-dependent, but, depending on your social interests (among other factors) you find that you have made a few friends outside of school. Maybe you joined a club, or you made a good friend during the summer.

Things like that.

Then comes University, or College, and, again, your social experience is still the main provider of friendships.

And then, one day, in your early, mid or late 20s, when you find yourself at your first jobs, your friends from youth are mostly gone and in their place are other people. People that, if you are “lucky”, have things in common with you.

Or, if you are “lucky”, have nothing in common with you, but you still enjoy each other’s company.

But then you get older. And your life changes. And you change.

But, if you are “lucky”, you still need people you like around you.

You need friends.

But those social networks which provided you with them, and enemies too -lest we forget- are no longer there.

With age you realize that making friends is now a bit more difficult. You realize that you can’t talk to people much younger than yourself because, well, because they all talk crap at that age. Just like you did. Or didn’t.

Now to that mix, add a spoonfull of ‘relocating to another country’ and half a liter of ‘doing it again in your late 30s’ plus a pinch of ‘and your partner lives in another city’.

Now…would you like fries with that?

Yes, moving to another country is as exciting as it is daunting. I now live in Spain. People here are very friendly, but in Spain, as anywhere else on this planet, most people have lived where they live most of their life. Their friends from most of their life are still here, and they are probably well-stocked in that area.

And here comes you, trying to enter that hallowed circle of friendship.

How does one do that? How do you penetrate someone’s circle of friends successfully.

Well, never mind that, my basic question is: how do you make friends later in life?

I have no idea.

If there’s a formula, I never chanced upon it.

I’ve been in Spain for seven years now, and, yes, I have some friends here and there.

Some of my friends happen to live in Barcelona, where my partner lives and, yes, most of these started out by being my partner’s friends, not mine. I am their friend by association, but friend nonetheless.

And here in Madrid I have some friends too, which I have fought over tooth and nail to make.

Some from my Masters, some from a social group, some I met through other friends, some others I met in French class. Some I just met on the street, and many are just expats (and no, not mostly British).

I cherish every one of them, but still I seek more friends. Like-minded people, not just people I have something, or a lot of things, in common with, but people who are like me.

Yes, it may sound ridiculous, but finding people like you is one of the most important things in life.

And what are people like you like?

Well, they are however you wish to define that, but basically, they are like you.

They are like the kind of people you say things like ‘people like you and I’ to.

Those people.

Like you.

So, just last week, through the power of the Internet and a dash of facebook, I met somebody I’d like to be friends with, but probably won’t be.

And she is the reason why this got written in the first place.

Let me tell you about this.

Last week, facebook advertised a page aimed at expats living in Spain who had things they wanted to get rid of, or sell. A sort of second-hand notice board for foreigners in the country.

Basically, if you came to Madrid to live 5 years ago, and you are going back home, you have to sell those Ikea bookshelves and CD collection which only you like. Plus your books.

You may end up throwing it all away, but now, thanks to the magic of the internet and the powers of facebook, your stuff can become someone else’s stuff.

So, there I was on the page, scrolling down to see what was there, hoping to find something I may like. And there it was: somebody was selling a surround sound system for €50.00

Me and another ‘user’ began to badger the owner of the product for a couple of days. One could come, one could not; then it rained; and it was sunny; then I was stuck in the office; and the other one seemed to pull out of the race, blah blah blah.

In the end I was the lucky one.

I went to her place, met her, her husband, and her baby. And really liked her.

After the whole transaction (I am now the proud owner of a Yamaha surround sound system for an incredible price and the cost of a cab ride home) was over, I went home thinking to myself, so… how would I go about befriending this nice person?

The usual fears and anxieties crept in.

She may think I’m a psycho. Or weird. Or any other number of social inequities may pop up in the equation.

Should I say something? Keep quiet?

Is she even in the market for a new friend?

A couple of years younger than I, and a mother, she may have no room or desire for new friends.

What should I do? Tell her I’d like to be her friend? Just move on?

If she were American, this process would be rather easy, but she is British, and as with all things UK, there are social procedures, nuances, and a myriad of unnavigable venues one should keep in mind so as not to make one big fat faux pas… and scare her off.

Age, in this respect, is beginning to be slightly burdensome.

Or perhaps not so much age but rather a clear, easy-to-follow,lack of befriending protocols.

 

100 shades of scandal: Rajoy & Co.

AOG, Madrid

After doing their best to stop the inevitable, and then only after the opposition threatened to stage a vote-of-no-confidence in Parliament, Spain’s ruling Conservative Party, the Partido Popular, and its leader, Spain’s PM, Mariano Rajoy, have agreed that Mr. Rajoy will attend Spain’s Congress to give some sort of explanation about the current political situation in the country.

Although at first he and his party, given their majority in the chamber, ensured he would not, and could not, be forced to show up to be questioned, once the opposition, and more importantly, the foreign media, started to criticise him and began to acknowledge that Spain’s economic recovery might be affected by the PM’s absence, they have staged a U-turn, but one in which Mr. Rajoy ensures everyone that he goes because he wants to and not because he is being forced to go.

Mr. Rajoy, who has enraged the media by staging press conferences at party headquarters in Madrid in one room, and sitting the media in another, all facing an internal broadcast of the proceedings on a plasma screen, has also been in the difficult position of having to answer journalists only during the courtesy press conferences organised whenever a foreign politician visits Madrid.

Of course, whenever this happens, the Spanish media do their best to get the Prime Minister to say something about Spain’s current political scandals – and there are many. 

Surprisingly, during the visit of Romania’s president to Spain this week, it was a Romanian journalist who, in almost perfect Spanish, asked Mr. Rajoy about these, to Rajoy’s, and everyone else’s, surprise.

 It is expected that Mr. Rajoy will go to the Cortes, as Spain’s parliament is known, in August, to give some sort of explanation. 

Nevertherless, critics have already expressed their fear that the prime minister will talk mainly, or only, about Spain's economy and avoid any questions related to the Bárcenas scandal.

Given the latest batch of confessions from the Popular Party’s ex-treasurer, Mr. Bárcenas, statements which point at Mr. Rajoy directly, the level of expectation is very high.

There are many questions which he is expected to answer, although he has already made it clear that he will attend the Cortes to talk about Spain’s economy, and give his “version” of the events, to everyone's chagrin.

Surprisingly to all, Mr. Rajoy has done his best to avoid saying Mr. Bárcena’s name out loud in public, or referring to him in any way, yet nobody seems to know why this is.

And what are some of the most pressing questions in the air?

Well, here’s a few that should be considered.

1-Did Mr. Bárcenas pay him €45,000 in undeclared (black) money?

The ex-treasurer has told the judge that in 2009 and 2010 he paid both Mr. Rajoy, and the Conservative Party’s General Secretary, María Dolores de Cospedal,

€45,000 as undeclared ‘premiums’. 

Thus far the Prime Minister has denied having ever received illegal payments from him. 

Back in February he publicly declared that he had “never” received nor given out “black money in this party or anywhere else”. 

Months later, however, Mr. Bárcenas accused Mr. Rajoy of just this, going as far as explaining that he gave him the money in €500 bills in a brown envelope.

One of Spain’s top newspapers, El Mundo, has published a story whereby Mr. Rajoy may have been receiving illegal payments during his time as Government Minister, from 1996 to 2004. 

Accoring to Mr. Bárcenas, back then the money was given to him inside a cigar box by then treasurer, Mr. Álvaro Lapuerta.

2- Was the Partido Popular financed illegally?

After denying it over and over, Mr. Bárcenas told Judge Ruz, that he indeed was the author of what is known as the ‘Bárcenas papers’. 

A group of documents and ledgers which kept track of all payments within the party and which showed a “parallel” accounting system for the party’s finances. 

Hence, the party’s accounts guardian suggests that the party has been illegally financed for over 20 years. 

The PP has continuously denied that this has been the case and has had its “official” accounts audited by Spain’s Accounts Tribunal. 

Nevertheless, as the Spanish media have pointed, it is hard to audit what they call these ‘B’ accounts.

3- Will he resign?

All of Spain’s opposition parties are clear on this question, Mr. Rajoy should resign. According to the main opposition party, the PSOE, Spain’s Socialist Party, the Prime Minister cannot remain in power when facing the type of accusations his ex-treasurer is making. 

Nonetheless, Mr. Rajoy has said during a press conference that his intention was to see his Administration out and spoke about the need for stability and of his Party’s majority in the Cortes ensuring his presence there. 

However, many in Spain question this and his continued presence in Moncloa Palace, the official residence. 

There is even talk, although it is all very hush-hush, of who will succeed him. 

Among the names being mentioned is Spain’s current Vice-President, Soraya Sáez de Santamaría, and Spain’s Justice Minister, Mr. Gallardón, Madrid’s former Mayor. 

Soraya Sáenz de Santamaría and Alberto Gallardón

4- Will there be any political repercussions?

Thus far, none of the political VIPs mentioned by Mr. Bárcenas have resigned or even made any sort of move that suggests they would. 

The Conservative Party’s ruling body is ignoring all accusations and likes to flaunt its presumed innocence on the matter. The party’s Secretary General, Ms. Cospedal, has said she feels calm and is “looking forward” to collaborating with the legal process. 

In spite of the ‘Papers’ alluding to payments made to many of the party’s top dogs, none have thought it necessary to leave their positions, including Mr. Javier Arenas, the party’s Vice-Secretary General, or MEP, Mr. Jaime Mayor Oreja. According to the ‘Bárcenas Papers’, the main beneficiary of the undeclared ‘premium’ payments would have been their electoral consultant, Mr. Pedro Arriola, who is reputed to have received up to 1.5 million Euros cash, according to El Mundo newspaper.

5- Why did Mr. Rajoy deny that he had been in contact with Mr. Bárcenas?

Back in January, Mr. Rajoy said publicly that he could not remember “the last time” he had seen Bárcenas. In spite of his bad memory, he continued to be in contact with his ex-treasurer through the recently-revealed spat of SMS, one of the dated as far as last March.

Mr. Bárcenas

 Even though they were not seen together, they did keep messaging each other and Mr. Rajoy told him to "be strong". 

When he goes to Parliament, he will have to explain himself on this issue.

6- Why was Mr. Bárcenas made treasurer of the Conservative Party in the first place?

Although he won’t even say his name now, it was Mr. Rajoy who named Mr. Bárcenas party treasurer. He had been the all powerful power-behind-the-throne up until that point and he substituted Mr. Álvaro Lapuerta. 

Ms. Cospedal has called his appointment a “mistake”. He will be expected to explain why he was given that job in the first place.

7- Is Spain’s PM being blackmailed by Mr. Bárcenas?

After the SMS were made public, Mr. Rajoy declared -in a Louis XIV "L'état, c'est moi" moment- that the rule of law (the State) will not be blackmailed, prompting the opposition to declare that it, and the rest of the country, cannot be expected to keep track of a continuous daily stream of revelations. 

 Where once the PP supported its ex-treasurer, it now wants nothing to do with him and many are worried about what he may say against Spain’s Prime Minister.

8- Can the Government’s ‘Brand Spain’ be damaged by scandal?

The idea of Spain as a brand, what they call ‘Marca España’, has been one of Rajoy’s biggest projects, intended as it is to improve the country's image abroad, especially where international investors and money markets are concerned.

Thus far, the ‘Bárcenas Affair’ has been on more international media than any other Spain-related topic. 

Media as influential as The Economist and The Financial Times have warned of the risk to the PM that this scandal represents. 

Whilst Rajoy insists on his electoral majority (something he does as justification for all his party and ministers do) and on the country’s stability as his biggest pillars of support vis-à-vis the EU, the presence of Bárcenas has already gone beyond Spain’s borders and many people are starting to look at Spain differently with who knows what sort of economic and financial repercussions.

9- Did he know about the donations from major construction and other big business firms?

The relationship between Spain’s conservatives and big business is another case in point. For example –according to Bárcenas– Mr. Juan Villar Mir, president of OHL, a large multinational construction and civil engineering company, wanted to donate €300,000 in a very public manner before the 2011 elections and was very interested in Mr. Rajoy knowing this.

10- Were any documents destroyed at Conservative headquarters?

According to Mr. Bárcenas’ sworn declarations, he gave Mr. Rajoy a list of the people who had been in receipt of these ‘premium’ payments (and what these amounts had been) once he was asked to leave the party’s treasury. According to  him, the now PM put the list through the paper shredder.

11- Denial and proof?

Thus far, Spain’s Popular Party has denied just about everything Mr. Bárcenas has told Judge Ruz, even though Mr. Bárcenas has turned in several original documents. Mr. Rajoy should show his own proofs that these documents are not what they appear to be.

Odd Economics

AOG, Madrid

I was last in London over Christmas and I hadn’t gone back until now, late May. 

My how the place has changed!

First of all, there’s the Shard. 

A tall pyramidal structure made of glass and which some are referring to as Mordor.

Although impressive from a distance, close-up it suffers from that thing that so often occurs in the UK: location, location, location. Or rather, a lack thereof.

It is not in a good neighborhood and, for a building intent on promoting finance, it is not in the City.

I got pretty close to it from London Bridge’s station’s platform 6, which takes you straight to Charing Cross.

From there, you get a glimpse of the glass behemoth, and you can't help but be taken aback by the fact that the thing looks a) unfinished, and b) empty.

As is the case with many European cities today, there is an overabundance of empty office space, and London is not the exception.

According to FT,  “In a survey of the industry by CBRE, the world’s largest property fund by assets, three-quarters of banks with a presence in London said that they were planning to cut the amount of office space they used.”

And according to The Telegraph, in 2009: "Approximately 11.9% of City offices are vacant – equivalent to 10 large city towers – up by a tenth already in 2009 and more than double the 5.2pc prior to the onset of the credit crisis in 2007, as increasing numbers of businesses collapse or downsize.”

So it would appear that another glass tower is not really what London needs. 

And yet, there is something amazing about tall buildings. 

The way they defy our human perspective and make us dream of the views we would see from them. Yes, there certainly is a dreamy aspect to tall buildings.

Second of all, my trip to London also informed me of the fact that the city is living trough a construction boom. 

Around the Greenwich area, any empty lot has been turned over to a building company which will gladly erect one of those boring looking, yet ever so trendy, housing plots with pseudo-modern architecture (which, in case you are wondering, just means pricey properties with small rooms and hardly any storage space).

A friend of ours who lives in the area said he was appalled at all the construction and mentioned how these days, most of those properties are being snapped up by wealthy foreign nationals, who will be in the UK for, maybe, a week per year, and city types who commute into and out of Canary Wharf, but never set foot in the area.

And according to Londonist magazine, this boom is only helping to make property even more expensive: “Average asking prices in London have gone past the £500,000 mark for the first time, and Camden has joined Westminster and Kensington and Chelsea as a borough where average prices are over £1m. 

We’ve also noticed a little flurry of articles pointing out the extent of foreign interest in high-end property. 

The New Statesman points out today that only 45% of buyers in central London are UK nationals; Russians and Middle Eastern citizens are those who seem to find the posh bits of the capital most tempting. 

The New York Times recently looked at the effect on local businesses of increasing numbers of owners using their London homes as temporary stop-off points. 

This phenomenon is exemplified in One Hyde Park, where Vanity Fair found that just 17 of the 76 apartments sold are registered as primary residences, and seems to be practically empty.”

I wonder about how healthy this is for a country.

On the other hand…

During my stay, I also met with a couple of friends. They corroborated this idea about London’s average housing prices being too steep, especially for a country where average wages are around £26,000. 

Who in London can afford half a million for a place to live?

Some can, no doubt, but most people, most Londoners, cannot. 

On that subject, we talked about recent studies which mentioned how, it is now becoming very obvious, that all the wealth being created in the City of London is not filtering downwards. 

Yes, the City of London creates jobs, that is, it creates employment for the people who serve the people who work -mostly in finance- in the City.

However, all that wealth being amassed there is not percolating down to the rest of the country.

In fact, a large proportion of it is not even taxable, thanks to the UK’s myriad of legal and financial loopholes and tax havens (Gibraltar, Channel Islands, etc etc etc).

London might be one of the planet's financial capitals, but if you are living outside of London, in a council estate, how is that benefitting you and your family?

None of this is illegal, of course (because politicians pass the laws which benefit their friends), but is it ethical?

Desirable?

A really bad precedent...

In Spain, meanwhile, people often like to bring up the example of Mr. Álvarez Cascos, PM's Aznar's Development Minister who, a few years ago, when asked why property in Spain was so expensive, replied "if it is expensive it is because Spaniards can afford it".

What he was trying to say was that he was proud that property was expensive because it meant the Spanish were doing well.

This was before the Conservative party lost the 2004 elections and Spain was hit by an economic crisis from which the country has yet to emerge.

Unfortunately for Mr. Álvarez Cascos, as well as for Mr. Cameron in the UK, most citizens were not so rich that they could afford a property.

In Spain this meant that banks took advantage of people, prices were inflated, and the property boom turned into a bubble which burst.

It meant that property for lower middle class, and middle class families, suddenly went up in price, and many people, as is the case in the UK, were priced out of the property market.

It means that, given Spain's anachronistic mortgage and property laws, you may turn your property's keys to the bank, and it may sell it, but you will still own the bank whatever was left on your mortgage.

It means that many people are being made homeless even today in Spain, while the Government looks on.

It means that many immigrants left the country, the home they bought, and their debt, in Spain and went back to where they came from.

All of this points to Spain's failure, especially since Madrid, unlike London, is not so international a city that many Russian or Middle Eastern investors are willing to pay half a million Pounds (or the equivalent in Euros) on average for the privilege of having a property there (although they will pay this much for property on the Costa del Sol, but that's a different story).

In the UK, where this has happened in the past, what is happening is that people are slowly being forced to move elsewhere. In many instances outside of London.

It is not a crazy idea to suggest that in the not-too-distant-future, London will be a half empty city where a lot of rich people don't live, and a lot of crime takes place.

Is this really what the British Government would like?

And before anyone says 'but what can they do', let me just say, if you are the Government and you don't know what to do, then you shouldn't be the Government.