In Bilbao, artists usually age at the Guggenheim–their works adorning its walls, drawing sighs from beholders and enduring the inquisitive, probing eyes of menfolk who study art as a discipline. Picasso ripens there. So do Braque and Rodchenko, all framed and preserved.
Roughly three kilometres away from the Guggenheim (if you ask the cab driver for the shortest route) is a site where a different sort of artist ages as we speak–the kind that kicks elastomer balls on perfectly laid down patterns of grass.
It was early August when Aritz Aduriz, speaking to a room packed with the media in Bilbao, announced that the 2019-20 season of the Spanish top division would be his last. You may not believe it, but in Bilbao they say that the Nervion wailed and the stands of San Mames moaned at the mention of this imminent farewell. After all, one of their favourite sons seemed to have run his course.
Yet, there was something to cheer about as Aduriz reassured everyone that his announcement in no way meant that he would lower his level. It sounded like a mere consolation back then. They had already pictured him coming off the bench in the dying minutes of a game to deafening cheers; simply to give them, the fans, a momentary glimpse of their hero until the referee blew for full-time. He was 38, at the end of the day. “Fit for the museum” in football terminology.