Pompeii-Madrid by Jesús Torbado
No descendant of those who once held the title of civis romanus, members of the old Latin empire, should miss the pilgrimage to the ruins of the city of Pompeii, located about twenty miles south of Naples. At least once in a lifetime. To understand and feel how our culture and customs were forged and to be filled with great emotions. However, as tourism passions are today, it is advisable to visit those squares and streets that the ashes buried on that winter day, preferably in the rain. An overwhelming crowd floods that relic in good weather to such an extent that it only produces melancholy, if not fury, to be part of it. And with the opinions heard and the gestures seen there, it always makes one want to hide in the jungles of the Amazon, still free from the ignorance and foolishness that circulates there. Like almost all major tourist hotspots, by the way.
One of the most curious matters discovered on the recovered floors and walls is the fondness of the Pompeians for graffiti. They not only painted sexual scenes that continue to be practiced today and adorned them with beautiful home decorations, but they also insulted their politicians, merchants, and prominent citizens, supported them in their campaigns, and exhibited all kinds of opinions, many of which were malevolent. The writing in shades of red-certainly altered by the disaster of Vesuvius and the passage of centuries-is orderly and beautiful, surprisingly elegant.
Compare the form and content with what we see today in the heart of Madrid, in its urban core. There is no city in the world more disgustingly filled with vulgar graffiti, obscene paintings, repulsive lettering, and horrendous eyesores. The old New York shown in the movies is a clean slate compared to it. Not even the most degraded neighborhoods of any European capital are as destroyed, ugly, and hostile. The graffiti artists who consider themselves artistic and progressive respect nothing: windows, doors, ledges, carved granite stones, fine woods, public furniture, venerable sites, historic places... In mid-November, they ruined a beautiful outdoor exhibition that the great Manolo Valdés installed along the Paseo del Prado.
And it is not just that the municipal authorities are completely unconcerned about the issue, turning a blind eye to such misdeeds, but it seems evident that they support them with some enthusiasm. Being a graffiti artist is now a badge of progressivism, just like making noise at parties or trampling on people walking on the sidewalks. Radio and television stations, as well as newspapers, foolishly excuse or praise them, 'discover' them, support them, and give them a platform in public spaces, as if they were truly artists-and while some may be: 'Deconstructs Manolo Valdés,' the newspaper El Mundo titled, with a benevolent tone, the photographs of the filth over his bronze meninas.
Even some municipalities in urban peripheries, saturated with progressive bookish councilors and trendy avant-gardists, organize contests for these public monstrosities, placing podiums for the most distinguished of their wrongdoers to receive applause. At any moment, the government, which submissively supports all this barbarity, will create the National Prize for Street Filth. For in truth, this matter has already become a politically correct business, that does not offend anyone, does not harm any gaze, that does not offend the minimal sense of aesthetics. Even those who suffer daily attacks in their own flesh, those who must spend a considerable amount of money to rehabilitate their property after vandalism, resign themselves because graffiti is seen as modern, as a sign of democratic freedom, as a symbol of creative youth.
Walking today through the classic street network of Madrid-and not just those, of course-is to embark on a journey into the repulsive, the unworthy, into municipal neglect at its zenith. Ah, if it only had some aesthetic or vital connection with Pompeii!