Monday Exposure: Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya

The Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya bestrides Montjuïc.

The Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya, with its commanding perch on Montjuïc, Barcelona's dominant hill, is more than a mere art museum.

It is a declaration.

Translated as the National Art Museum of Catalonia, it holds a world-class collection of works by Catalan artists, from 12th century medieval frescoes to modern giants such as Salvador Dalí and Pablo Picasso.

The Apse of Sant Climent de Taüll, an 1100s Romanesque fresco preserved from a church in Catalonia.

But note the "National" part of the title. Catalonia is not a nation, at least not yet. The regional Catalonian government, however, declared the MNAC to be a national museum back in 1990, and the museum's official (re)inauguration in 2004 confirmed that title.

Head of Christ, circa 1352, by Jaume Cascalls.

Yesterday, more than two million Catalonians participated in an informal referendum -- a "consultation of citizens" -- asking whether they wanted Catalonia to be a state, and if so, whether they wanted that state to be independent from Spain. Approximately 81% of the voters answered "yes" to both questions.

The Spanish government views the referendum as illegitimate. It used court orders to block a more official and binding referendum, calling such efforts "illegal." The national government will not consider an official referendum on independence, rejecting the approach by the U.K. government with regard to Scotland's recent referendum.

Closeup scene in The Spanish Wedding, by Marià Fortuny.

Nonetheless, Catalonia has grown steadily more assertive regarding its desire for independence. The Catalonians have their own language, called Catalan. They erect monuments to martyrs of the independence movement. Catalonian flags flutter from windows and balconies. They hold independence rallies attended by more than a million people.

And their beloved art is housed in a preemptively-named national museum.

In next spring's regional elections, the pro-independence supporters may run candidates supporting a platform with only one item: independence. Victory in those regional elections would, according to the supporters, indicate an undeniable democratic mandate by Catalonians in support of independence. At that point, they argue, the central Spanish government could not deny their legitimacy.

Ramon Casas and Pere Romeu on a Tandem, by Ramon Casas, 1897.

Is the name of the National Art Museum of Catalonia a passing fancy, or a harbinger of things to come?

Time will tell.

Mattie in Scotland

Mattie visiting Jedburgh Abbey.

Our beloved dog, Mattie, passed away last week. I am devastated.

Conquering the playground.

The end came quickly. Two weeks ago, her only symptom was an upset stomach. When diarrhea persisted for a few days and her appetite diminished a bit, Kate took her in for some tests. At that point, however, Mattie was still her same playful and perky self.

Within two days, Mattie was showing signs of discomfort, vomiting a little and even whimpering a bit in pain. That same day, her test results started to come in. We knew she had cancer, and needed further tests.

Mattie normally slept at the foot of our bed, but that night she wanted to sleep downstairs. I slept there with her.

By the next afternoon, a Saturday, we took her to the university's veterinary hospital, where Kate is a professor of pathology. Over the next 24 hours, Mattie was diagnosed with hepatosplenic lymphoma (liver, spleen, bone marrow, possibly elsewhere), an aggressive cancer which doesn't respond well to chemotherapy. Additionally, she suffered from pancreatitis, GI inflammation, and some blood clotting issues.

By the next day, she had stopped eating. Although her pain was manageable, she was deteriorating quickly. The following morning (last Tuesday), she was nearing the end, and we had to euthanize her. Though the cancer was the root cause of her illness, ultimately it was a variety of secondary effects which did her in.

A blustery winter morning on the shores of the Moray Firth in northeastern Scotland.

We had hoped to stabilize Mattie during her hospital stay, to see if we could eke out a few weeks or months of time. Let her come home, take some walks, perhaps even go for a hike or two. Though chemo was not likely to be of much help, we were prepared to spend the money anyway to see how the cancer responded after a first round. {Ed.'s note: In veterinary practice, chemotherapy for dogs is generally not pursued as a cure, but instead as a management of the disease.} Unfortunately, we never got the chance.

Hiking on the Isle of Skye.

Mattie (short for Matterhorn, a mountain in Bern, Switzerland) was nearing her ninth birthday which, for a Bernese Mountain Dog, is bang on for the average life span. Given how active and spry she was, however, I truly expected to have more time with her. Perhaps not years more, but nonetheless a long span of time. Instead, she went from vigorous and spirited to organ failures in less than a week.

Jackson misses his dog, but has not completely grasped the concept of death. We took him into the hospital to say a final goodbye. After she was euthanized, we had him see Mattie again while we explained that she had died. By doing so, we were hoping to make her death a concrete fact for him. We explained that we won't see her again; she could no longer see or breathe or play or eat or walk; that she was gone forever. When we have our discussions —which he initiates every day, at least for a few minutes — he nods and says he understands. But then some days he'll ask when Mattie will come home from the hospital, or wonder if she needs a toy to play with. Death is not quite as concrete a concept as we had hoped, though I suppose that's natural at his age.

Goofy dog trying to get attention.

I take solace from knowing she led a good and happy life. Her last 15 months — her time in Scotland — were among her best. She no longer had to wait through a workday until we got home. Instead, she had both Jackson and me around full time. We enjoyed numerous walks and hikes. The cooler weather allowed her to lounge outdoors year round, unlike our years in North Carolina when the summer months meant mostly air conditioning and early morning walks. Since Scotland is more dog-friendly than the States, Mattie came more places with us: restaurants, stores, hotels, historic sites.

Crossing the famous Swilcan Bridge on the Old Course in St. Andrews.

Someday I'll write more about wonderful Mattie. She was my first dog. At the moment, it feels like I could never allow myself another.

For now, here are more pictures celebrating Mattie's life here in Scotland. These are some of the images by which I will always remember her.

Posing briefly outside Dunvegan Castle on the Isle of Skye.

Grungy after a hike in Mugdock Park outside Glasgow.

Photobombing at the Machrie Moor stone circles on the Isle of Arran.

Reenacting when the giant, Fingal, tethered his dog at the stone circles.

Christmas morning with a new bone and sock monkey.

Kate took this selfie at Neist Point on the Isle of Skye.

Playing on the beach at Chanonry Point. She loved playing in sand, but wasn't too keen about water with waves.

Resting during a hike in Glencoe.

Exploring the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey.

Romping amidst the ruins with Jackson.

A rainy day walk along the Forth & Clyde canal.

At the Armadale ferry dock on the Isle of Skye, a fabulous landscape photographer has his shop. He takes impromptu photos of the dogs who pass by. (Photo by grumpygeorge)

One of our best hikes ever was on the Quiraing at the northern end of the Isle of Skye.

This photo, on the same hike on the Quiraing, is titled: "Pooping with a view."

On a walk with Grampa Bill.

Every so often, Kate took Mattie to work with her. At lunch they would take walks along the River Clyde in Glasgow.

On the banks of Loch Lomond.

We hiked only a few hours on the West Highland Way. It's one of my great disappointments that Mattie won't be able to hike the full trail with me.

An idyllic morning at the ruins of St. Blane's Church on the Isle of Bute.

I could write "a boy with his dog." But really, it was Mattie with her boy.

If you would, just for me, give your dog a big hug. And take her for a walk today, no matter the weather. You may not know until it's too late when it will be your last opportunity.

This blog is inspired by the idea of carpe diem, of taking opportunities to stretch your boundaries and live without regrets. While I would have loved to have had Mattie for longer, I feel good that I was able to spend quantity and quality time with her. I'm not filled with regret about failing to do things with her and for her.

Nonetheless, Mattie's death helps reminds me that we just don't know how the future will turn out. Live the life you want now. Before it's too late.

We miss you, Mattie. Thanks for being a fantastic companion.

Monday Exposure: Seaside golf on the Isle of Iona

The first tee marker at the Isle of Iona's golf course.

Cows graze. Sheep nestle in the sand traps. A hidden corncrake mutters its call, like the tines of a comb dragged across wood. The wind is stiff, but the waves lap softly onto shore.

No clubhouse, no fees, no tee times. Nor any golf carts, caddies, smooth greens, restrooms, beer carts. Sometimes, the sheep have eaten the flags.

The cows help keep the course trimmed . . . and fertilized.

To avoid frustration, avoid a white ball. The weeds are voluminous. As are the tufts of sheep fur clinging to the sandy machair grass. For your ball, think pink.

Even so, you're probably gonna lose a few. Perhaps because you hit your ball in the exact opposite direction of the hole, since no flag remained to indicate the hole's location. Or the ball caromed off a rocky outcrop into a deep crevice. Or maybe, given the composition of the soil, you hit your drive and the ball sank into the ground on impact, enveloped by the sandy soil and never to be seen again.

It's like no other golf course you've played on.

Natural. Authentic. Rugged. Serene. The course has been fit to the land, not vice versa. It's the way golf began, hundreds of years ago. Every so often, a professional player shows up, just to reconnect with the ancient mores of the game.

One day in August every year, the course hosts the Iona Open. All and sundry are welcome. Played on only eleven of the holes, the winner is whomever has the best scratch score on any nine of them. Some years, a professional or two play the Open. And lose.

Every other day of the year, it's all yours. Some folks make pilgrimages to visit Iona's ancient abbey. Your pilgrimage, to the windswept golf course on Iona's southwestern coast, awaits.

Typical sheep hazards on the green.