Word: barcelona
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...TIME'S correspondent in Madrid for four years (1956-60). To catch the visual aspects, Senior Editor Peter Bird Martin, who handles color projects, flew to Madrid and clocked 1,250 miles in a rented car, ranging from Malaga and Cadiz in the south to Bilbao and Barcelona in the north...
...life of her black-faced baby, prayed to the Virgin of the nearby monastery of Montserrat, a statue sculpted in wood that has become so darkened by age and candle smoke fhat it is known as the Black Virgin. Daughter of an industrial chemist, Caballé was enrolled in Barcelona's Conservatorio del Liceo at nine, worked as a seamstress to pay for her tuition, graduated at 23 with every honor in sight. Wed last year in the Montserrat monastery to Spanish Tenor Bernabé Martí, whom she met while singing Madama Butterfly in Barcelona, she says...
...boast the world's best clay-court player in Manuel Santana, 27, a tenacious, skillful shotmaker who had won his last eight Davis Cup singles matches without losing a set. And when the visiting Americans got a look at the copper-colored center court at Barcelona's Real Club de Tenis, they knew they were in trouble. Slowed even more than normal by heavy rains, the soft surface took the bite out of the serves and volleys, made smashes as easy to handle as lobs. "The name of the game here is grub," complained...
...only real doubt about Spain's chances centered on Juan Gisbert, a young (22) Barcelona law student and tennis unknown, whose one claim to fame was a victory over Teammate Santana in a minor tournament last spring. Gisbert wiped out that doubt by polishing U.S.'s No. 1 player, Dennis Ralston, in last week's first match−breaking Ralston's service seven times in a row for a 3-6, 8-6, 6-1, 6-3 victory. Ralston took his defeat with typically bad grace, complaining, among other things, about the court, the heat...
...brief and startlingly persuasive performance, by Linda Christian. Moment gives this conventional plot the classic simplicity of folk art. Gianni di Venanzo's vibrant color photography uncovers the temper of Spain among black-hooded worshipers at a religious festival, among whores and homosexuals in the slums of Barcelona, in the face of a proud old taskmaster whose dingy urban cellar houses a school for stripling toreros. In one sequence, the disconsolate Miguelin wanders through a sere, light-washed Spanish landscape while threshers fill the air with a blizzard of pale yellow grain. Such scenes are a needed respite from...