On my first visit to the apartment, it was empty. Modern and international, with clean, deliberate lines. Some architect's dream of an apartment. It could have been located anywhere, owned by anyone. It was beautiful, but lacked personality. Now there's an interesting contrast developing as Ortega adds to the decor. The wall-hangings and artifacts he acquires, even the pieces of furniture, they're all quaint. Evidence of some studied curation.
I imagine Ortega returning home like a martin at dusk, carrying bits of mud or string, or maybe the sun-bleached paper wrapper from some chocolate treat. I see him tilting his head, appraising the nest, then pressing these things into the smooth interior walls until satisfied with his arrangement. It makes me laugh, folding together the images of the bird and this elegant man, but I've got to admit that what he's doing provides a character that is favorably at odds with the sleek, neutrality of the original style.
I adore the African statues, even if I don't want to know how they ended up here, or what human currency paid for them. And the intricately-framed Louis chairs express the tender and feminine side of European aesthetics.
There're also a number of tables and chairs that are modern in concept, but were created from local materials. Not the usual plastic spheres or stainless steel rectangles. Instead, organic shapes more reminiscent of animals and plants than geometry. If this is the work of Anchurian craftspeople, color me impressed. I relish leaning back in one of the seats, feeling the cool leather against my skin, floating away in the dreamy glow of the slow-setting sun.