So You’re Going to the Prado?
When your expectations don’t quite meet up with reality.
Before I came to the Prado this summer, I had been extremely nervous about my internship. That was for a variety of reasons. At first, when I found out that I would be coming here, I was utterly astounded that I had been accepted. Then, I was ecstatic about the opportunity to work at a museum and live in Spain for three months. It seemed almost too good to be true. At the time, I didn’t know an extensive amount about the Prado itself (besides a little bit about some aspects of its collection), but I knew enough to recognize that this opportunity was a big deal.
I had several months before I would be heading to Spain and plenty of time to prepare myself for this great adventure. Overall, I felt pretty good about the whole thing. The nervousness didn’t start to set in until the day that I was invited to a lecture and luncheon that would be hosted at my university in honor of one of the former presidents of Spain. It was a last-minute invitation (some other student was not able to come), and I was not really sure what to expect. Still, I accepted the invitation anyway, honored by the distinction. I had already come to campus for a class at 8 a.m., dressed in casual clothes that were meant to see me through until I would be able to return home at 7:30 p.m. after a long day of work and classes. I was a bit worried that I was not dressed for the occasion of the luncheon, but I didn’t have time to go home and change. However, I had been assured that my state of casual dress would not be a problem.
That was true at the lecture, which was attended by students from all over campus who had probably stopped by to listen between classes. However, once I arrived at the luncheon, I quickly realized that I was, indeed, underdressed. It isn’t that I was dressed sloppily or anything of that nature — I was wearing nice jeans, a sweater, and boots — but when you enter a room full of people in nice suits and dresses and you’re the only one wearing jeans. . . it kind of stands out.
I immediately felt out of place; and as the host went around the room introducing everyone to the guest of honor, I wanted to disappear into the wall. When he got around to me, he said, “Remember the student I told you about who would be interning at the Prado? This is Arnesia.” I went forward to shake the visitor’s hand as he responded, “¿Es ella?” . . . In other words, “That’s her?”, as in, “That’s who you’re sending to the Prado, the one who showed up to meet me wearing jeans?” . . . Well, at least that’s how it sounded in my head. I attempted to smile politely but instead probably ended up with an awkward grimace plastered on my face. It was around that point that my anxiety began to build.
As we were directed to our set places in the formal dining room, I tried to calm down and convince myself that he hadn’t meant anything by his surprised reaction. I was placed at a table with several important-looking people from the university staff and two other students, who seemed at ease in their fancy suits. A woman who was seated with us began asking where we were from and what we were studying. The two other students responded that they were from different areas of Spain, and both of them were studying at the business school — one of the most prestigious colleges at the university. When I told her that I was from Alabama, she responded, “Oh, but your parents are Spanish?” When I answered that they weren’t, she probed further, “Oh, but you have some form of Spanish heritage then?” When I responded again that I did not, she looked a little puzzled and replied, “I’m sorry, but why are you here exactly?”
I felt my stomach drop to my toes. If I felt out of place before, well, here was confirmation for that sneaking suspicion. If I were one to blush, I would have been bright red. I wiped my sweaty palms discreetly on the napkin in my lap as I attempted to sputter out a response — trying to appear calm and collected as if that comment hadn’t made me want to sink into the floor. Perhaps recognizing she had made me a bit uncomfortable, she amended her inquiry, following up with, “What I mean is, what is your connection to Spain?” In response, I explained that I had been invited to the luncheon that morning by its host because another student couldn’t make it. For good measure, I added that I would be interning at the Museo Nacional del Prado in the summer.
Judging by her surprised reaction at my confession to being one hundred percent American, It seemed that I might be the only student there who didn’t have some sort of Spanish heritage. That suspicion was confirmed when, at the request of the host, everyone began standing one by one to introduce themselves to the company. I was one of the last people to stand when my turn finally came, and it felt a bit like a confession when I somewhat bashfully admitted that not only was I not from Spain but that I had never even been there. Nevertheless, I tried to mitigate that blow by announcing the fact that I would be going there in the summer to intern at the Prado and was really looking forward to it. When I sat back down, the food was being served, and the chit-chat at the table had returned to the topic of our studies and future plans after graduating. From that point onward, I somehow managed to make it through the rest of the lunch relatively unscathed in the realm of social disgrace.
When everyone was finishing their deserts, the host of the luncheon stood and invited the guest of honor to join him at the front so he could be presented with a gift from the university. Once those formalities had concluded, the former president was invited to say a few words. All I could think was that — finally — this was the end, and I would be able to get out of there and free myself of any further embarrassment. However, after giving his thanks and making a few short comments, the honoree directed his attention towards me. He waxed on for several minutes about how great and important an institution the Prado is, even adding that if he could go back and change his path he would have chosen to be the director of the Prado. He emphatically stressed the honor that it is to work there, at an institution that is the pride of Spain, not forgetting to mention how many countless others there are who would love to take my place. Whether or not these were meant to be words of encouragement and congratulations, I cannot say objectively because — in my state of agitation and self-consciousness — his words only seemed to highlight in my mind how totally unqualified, unprepared, and undeserving I was of this prestigious opportunity.
Why on earth do I bother recounting that slightly painful recollection? I promise there’s a reason. That was the first acquaintance with Spain and the Prado that I received, thousands of miles away from the place itself. From that one (mostly inconsequential) experience, I began to form my perception of what the Prado would be like. From that moment on, it was built up in my mind in all its grandeur and intimidating glory. All my own little insecurities started to surface, and I was sure I would be inadequate in the meet the lofty standards held by an institution that occupies such an exalted and authoritative position. Surely my future supervisor and coworkers would scoff and wonder why on earth I had been sent.
Of course, as a visitor to the Prado, you probably don’t have the same sense of worry that you won’t measure up to its degree of excellence. However, you may still be overwhelmed by the imposing facade (both literal and figurative) that an institution such as the Prado projects. Or maybe you’re intimidated by the vastness of its collection and feel ill-equipped to guide yourself successfully through its halls. Well, in that case, don’t allow my story to add to any misgivings you may already have about visiting the Prado. My experience here so far has been the exact opposite of my original expectation, which was founded upon the feelings of a few moments of flustered embarrassment. Despite my worries, I have been welcomed here with open arms by people who are so down to earth and friendly. What’s more, I can even wear jeans to work! During my short time here, I have learned firsthand that — above all — the Prado is a family. And what successes it can lay claim to have been built on a foundation of teamwork. Regardless of the fact that the Prado is a renowned international institution, it doesn’t hold itself above the public that it serves; to the contrary, it has made a number of efforts to make its collection more accessible to its public.
In the following posts, we’ll talk a little bit more about how the Prado can become more accessible to you and how you can take better advantage of your time in the museum while maximizing your enjoyment of all it has to offer. As for me. . . I am still in awe of the fact that I’m even here, but now I am seeing the Prado through new eyes. I hope, as you continue to read, you will too.
