THE NAKED CITY

a statue of aníbal gonzález stands facing the plaza de españa built for the iberio-american exposition of 1929 at the parque de maria luisa in seville, the grandest and most widely recognized of the structures designed by the sevillian architect. and in front of the two story brick building at number seven plaza carmen benitez a statue of the cuban singer antonio machín, who found love in seville in 1943 and played his final show in the same city thirty-four years later. but the building could be by gonzález, even if it's not on any of the aníbal gonzález sightseeing routes -- which is to say that gonzález did design some buildings to the east of the city center, generally in and around the neighborhood of san bernardo, and that simple knowledge helps the building to concentrate its vague pertinence to the neo-mudejar style for which gonzález was known in the later years of his career. it's obvious that neither the church of san bernardo nor the (perplexingly buttressed) royal artillery factory behind it were projects of the architect. but, like number seven plaza carmen benitez, the building at number forty-two san bernardo might have been.

although it probably wasn't a private residence, it could, possibly, have been any number of other things. it might have been a library, or the offices of a utility or an administration of the municipality. it might been a school. although from inside it's difficult to tell if the space at the center of the of the edifice between the two lateral wings was always open to the sky or if the roof has fallen, the building is obviously in a state of disrepair; and if it was in fact designed by aníbal gonzález, it's nearly certain that it isn't on any of the sightseeing routes because it's been occupied. it's difficult, however, to argue with the banner on the front door of the autonomous, self-managed social center, which defiantly proclaims to its more expensively dressed (although still crisis stricken) neighbors that when living is a luxury, occupation is a right. the (self-)management of the center would certainly be open to a debate about its raison d'être. but regardless, and even if the center doesn't have anything special to do with the architectural legacy of the city, it's undeniably well situated: the home of the city's alternative bloc in the vanguard of the sexual revolution definitely deserves to have its rear end facing the puerta de la carne (even if the spanish don't get the joke).

by chance (or maybe this is exactly why we follow our own sightseeing routes), last thursday was the first day of the anarchist book fair being co-hosted by the center, and since, by chance, the painting exhibit at the pavilion of the united states in the parque de maria luisa was inexplicably closed, we had the evening free to attend the scheduled presentation on socialism, homosexuality and the spanish state. the presenter, who also wrote the book available at his table in that open air space in the center of the building, wasn't much of a speaker. it was true too, as she had remarked while we were waiting for the presentation to begin in the library of the place that might actually have been designed to be a library, that he looked comically like an actor set in the anarchist book fair scene of some camp film. waiting to be shot: shoulders squared with his elbows on the table in front of him and his hands clasped, seated in a too big chair with his feet only just barely not dangling above the floor (although a stylist would surely have insisted on doing something with the poorly tended mohawk). but since she'd also remarked (earlier, while we were waiting to go wait in the library) that my converse and my handbag didn't seem very dedicatedly socialist -- and that the regular centergoers probably didn't think so either -- i felt encouraged to make her stay and listen to the presentation until its end.

although the presenter didn't speak sevillian, he did speak quickly, and, to complicate it more, his presentation was very self-managed anarchist book fair. the representative of the center seated next to him might have in that it was a bit overly disjointed and went on a bit too long for people to be much interested in discussion. in general, what he presented wasn't much more than a political calendar of noteworthy events in the transformation of political socialism and the laws regarding homosexuality in twentieth century spain -- making sure, of course, to make appropriate references to famous figures like lorca and cernuda for the local crowd. unfortunately, he didn't seem inclined to make any sort of synthesis once he'd arrived near the present in the twenty-first century. he did offhandedly mention the passage of the marriage equality law, but stopped short of speculating on what the subsumption of a theretofore (generally) politically radicalized group into the comfortable confines of the patriarchy would mean for the future of his topic (although he seemed to allude to our understanding that it meant bad news). she, however, was out of the room taking a phone call, and we could argue on our own about that subject later. for my part, if i hadn't been thinking instead on how i would like to have been seated closer to the shelves with the le carre books that i could see two rows in front of me, i might have better caught the anecdote about the establishment (whenever it was) of separate prisons for tops and bottoms. it might have been nice to recycle. once the presentation was over, however, i didn't have the patience for my own question. (and what was stopping me from telling the bar owner whatever i wanted?)

what we mean to say, rather -- in this presentation -- is that the point of the walk is just to see what we say. because no, i didn't much agree with the guy's attitude either, but his pompous spouting off about fags and hookers at the autonomous social center behind the puerta de la carne wasn't without value (i insist, and not just because we had stayed to the end of it at my insistence), even if it was generally without coherence. unfortunately, our conversation on the under radicalization of the electorate and the potential success or failure of the general strike was over radicalized by my personal vendetta against the shoe and handbag comment. (of course being a fag hooker doesn't naturally incline you to socialism, but there are historical and social inclinations working alongside the natural ones.) but seeing as we weren't getting anywhere where we were, after the conversation derailed we decided to leave the wreckage behind and relocate. and the beard might have been working at el pasaje as well.

she did intentionally take us along mateos gago, but only because she prefers the route to santa cruz that follows the edge of the gardens of the alcazar and not because the buildings at numbers twenty-four and twenty-six were designed by aníbal gonzález. that, however, had i known it at the time, would have made for an interesting transition into my interest in the multidisciplinary exhibit on the spirit of the flâneur on display at cicus until the end of the month. as it was, i just happened to mention that i was planning to go see it the next day, and the bulk of our conversation we rededicated to depression and infidelity. and i was listening to her as she talked, i just also happened to be trying to look down the shirt of the beard at the same time. (and the beer he was serving us certainly helped with all of the above.) but with him it's difficult to tell, but i stopped wondering as we were leaving because another police patrol was passing through the narrow street outside, the second in less than an hour. because of the elections, she supposed -- and all the more reason to go to the strike, i thought as i collected my bag to leave.

and the next afternoon, the third or fourth pair of police motorcycles passes onto the plaza de la encarnación outside of the café window in front of which i'm brushing up on my disagreements with the position of the situationist international on urban wandering in preparation for my visit to the exhibit at cicus. "the dérive does not demonstrate the pure submission to unconscious desire that characterised the surrealist wanderings or the journeys of the strolling flâneur." that, at least, is the distillation presented by merlin coverley on guy debord's characterization of that "technique of transient passage through varied ambiences." and i suppose that if abortion of purpose can be considered a purpose in itself then i would gladly have myself subsumed under debord's rubric. his map of the naked city, "clarifying certain wanderings that express not subordination to randomness but complete insubordination to habitual influences." but probably my preoccupations are primarily artistic, regardless of the strike and the vendetta of the shoes and the handbag, at least they were on that day, and in spite of the fact that i didn't even make it to the art exhibit.

we did, however, have every intention of going, and i would have picked up my companion earlier had it not been for the special treatment that the both of us were getting at where we were waiting for the other to arrive. in the end, i went in her direction because she was on our way to the exhibit; but because she was in her direction with someone else it was all too easy for the three of us to submit ourselves to unconscious desire. or conscious desire: to go around the corner in the opposite direction of the exhibit, to go to little italy for a beer. or it might have been the spring and the orange blossoms and the friday evening chance of finding something more than just staring at the beard (although that story still needed to be told).

and i would have left my companions earlier except that she joined us, another one, and still with her bags from the trip. who were we not to wait to let her catch up -- and then to help her with her things through the menacing streets of the center? so later we passed through the throngs doing their holy week shopping around the plaza del salvador, and through the crowds starting to gather at the bars in arenal; and we passed then down reyes catolicos just a block from that section of bailen from which are visible both the hotel londres and the hostal paris, those comically crude references to the most famous cities of the most famous traditions of european wandering.

but what do we care? we pass them, but not directly (although i will hours later on a kind of a way home). and we continue across the the isabel segunda bridge to the lighthouse, driven by unconscious desire. the view, and the fragrance of the orange blossoms, and the memory of holy thursdays past. it's not so bad that night, the one of them says. and the latecomer agrees. it's something undeniably mystical, and it will move you if you're willing to be moved, they say. and then i start to wonder about the positioning of the important parishes of the city, the ley lines of seville, and a probably only legendary story about a tunnel connecting the church of santa ana in triana to the torre de oro across the river brings back fond memories of the vatican caves by gide. but then we're at the lighthouse, and although none of our group would ever cross themselves across from where the inquisition once had its local center of operations, many of the local residents do. because exactly opposite the lighthouse, and crowning the public market where once upon a time not so long ago the defenders of the faith would have tortured and killed the witches and the gypsies and the faggot hookers who today might have been our friends stands the capilla de la virgen del carmen, one of the four religious structures in the city designed by you know who.