The blue lotus 11

Lotus

Issue 11 2018

The Blue

Arts Magazine

Christmas in Catalonia

in this issue Figueres Christmas Market Girona Port Lligat Carles Bros Christmas at Hotel Duran Jacques Dupuy CĂŠramiques Sant Vicens 1

Lotus The Blue

Arts Magazine

The Blue Lotus remains a wholly independent magazine, free from favour and faction.

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The Blue Lotus Arts Magazine is an entirely free and non-associated publication concerned with bringing Asia to the world, and the world to Asia

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inside....

6 Editorial

Thoughts on the current issue

by the Founding Editor

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Christmas in Catalonia Year's end journey

14 Actually day one

First day back in Catalonia

18 Day too

Back together again

20 Figueres Christmas Market

La Rambla transformed

28 Day too continues Tajine, couscous and paella

38 Day three

Lazy days and crowded bathrooms

40 Fresh Food Market Figueres

Marvellous fresh fare from local farms 46 Day five

Gaudi, Barcelona and ancient skittles

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Front cover; New ceramics at Sant Vicens, Perpignan

Issue 11, 2018

58 Something like day six

Hunting down pork ribs and bones

62 Girona

Land of Games of Thrones

80 Port Lligat

Urchins and home of Dalí

92 Carles Bros

Catalan artist

104 Christmas at Hotel Duran

All the fun of the fare

132 St. Stevens Day This town is getting like a ghost town

142 An evening with Jacques Dupuy

Architect and painter

154 Empordàlia

Of wine and olive oil 160 Céramiques Sant Vicens

A story of ceramic making in Perpignan

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Lotus Welcome to

The Blue Lotus Arts Magazine.

This issue highlights Catalonia as it reveals more of itself in winter. There are markets galore, Christmas markets, farmers' markets and craft markets too. This issue has a heavy concentration on the winter food of the region, the unusual and the traditional. There are echoes of Pablo Picasso and more modern Catalan painters too' The Blue Lotus is a platform for international cooperation, aiming to bring creative Asia to the world, and the creative world right back to Asia.

Now read on

Martin Bradley (Founding Editor) https://www.facebook.com/ bluelotusartsmagazine/

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Però, avui, deixo estar el meu esperit en el seu estat natural. No vull que l’agitin pensaments ni idees.

But, today, I leave my spirit in its natural state. I don’t want it agitated by thoughts or ideas.

Part of Prelude by Joan Brossa

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Chris in Cata 8

CadaquĂŠs

stmas alonia 9

A rescheduled flight plan has meant that we miss Carn d’Olla” (Catalan pasta broth), prepared for 4 Bota de Sant Ferriol” at H

Preamble

It is the fifth of December. Freddy Mercury’s poignant song (Barcelona) rattles around my head. Christmas day is twenty days away. Our flight to Barcelona is a mere eleven days distant. There is a flurry of activity. There is money to change, last minute shopping, vital information to download from the ever present internet, and print. Print because it seems more real on paper somehow, and because the Barcelona Tourist Bus insists that paid vouchers are seen physically, on paper, before the issuance of two day tickets.

There are little hiccups in our plans. The Irish living son, we discover, is arriving at eight in the evening, not in the morning, while we are arriving just before one pm. This poses a small problem. We had planned to meet up at El Prat (I love that name) airport, then mosey along to Figueres and the apartment we (that is Honey, her eldest and youngest son and I) have booked for 15 days. A seven hour wait does not seem such a good idea. Irish living son will be put up in a ‘Pension’ for the night, and we shall join him for lunch in Barcelona. Perhaps at La Boqueria the magical food market, if I am lucky. Then we shall whisk around the old town before heading back to Figueres, and the apartment. However plans can change.

As there will be four of us, it seemed more sensible to book an apartment rather than having two rooms in Hotel Duran, which is where (like Salvador and Gala Dalí) we would normally domicile when in Figueres.

I must confess that I also want the opportunity to cook some of that intriguing food I see on the markets and in the super markets, around Figueres town. Though I, for one, will miss the Hotel Duran breakfast, the coffee, croissants, cold meat and cheese selections, not to mention, of course, the wonderful staff, but not necessarily in that order. Bearing that in mind, I have booked a table for four for our Christmas ‘dinner’, at 1pm, at Hotel Duran. It is my Christmas present to the family. It will be interesting to see just what they choose. Being an ex-Boy Scout, I have already downloaded the menu from the internet.

Emulating Laurie Lee I walk out, not one mid-summer, but one midwinter's morning, to the local park, some thirty seconds from my rented house, and am unable to notice the difference. This is Malaysia. It is eight in the morning and the humidity is beginning to rise. I'd like to say that I was performing my morning constitutional, only there have been many months between the last constitutional and today's attempt to exercise my still painful knee (oh thank you so very much England, you and your boisterous ways).

If sweating were the object of this exercise, I need do nothing more 10

the typical Catalan winter season dish “Escudella i 40 of the local Gastronomical fraternity called “La Hotel Duran, Figueres.

Escudella i Carn d’Olla

than turn up, situate myself far from the middle-aged Chinese disco divas, and plonk myself down for half an hour. My Samsung phone tells me that the temperature, even at this pre-breakfast time of day, is 27°. I sweat.

I have ambled as far as my paining knee allows. So I sit and wait for my much better half, while watching equally sweaty Malaysians amble past as I sit, a martyr to my knee.

I am in training for Catalonia. Not a marathon of any kind, unless, like me, you consider any lengthy walking a marathon. No, I need to build up a little stamina for our winter break, otherwise I can see myself being left behind.

She is back. She stretches, making me feel inadequate, portly and decidedly antique. A man walks past. His handphone, in his hand, blares out Mandarin. He obviously does not feel the need for earphones. As the day awakes, the park steps up its noise level. A herd of white t-shirts jog by.

Time for breakfast.

This is South East Asia. No toast and marmalade for this lad. We walk to a kopitiam (Chinese coffee house), about five minutes away.

I order char siew pau (Chinese steamed bun with barbecue pork hidden inside), pork noodles (Ho Fun or kway teow) and a rather strong tea made with evaporated milk. Hmmm, and as exotic as that may sound, next time I’ll have breakfast at home. I drag my, now aching, knee back to our rented house, and revive myself with an iced Coca Cola. Sinful aren’t I. A rescheduled flight plan has meant that I will miss the typical Catalan winter season dish “Escudella i Carn d’Olla” (Catalan pasta broth), prepared for 40 of the local Gastronomical fraternity called “La Bota de Sant Ferriol” at Hotel Duran, Figueres. Not to mention the opportunity to hob nob with the local gastronomes. I curiously wonder what they would think of Durian, Cempedak or indeed fermented beancurd, or beancurd cheese).

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The early morning airport

eases us to the ever waiting room. All airports are but waiting rooms. Millions of relatively patient people accept their fate and patiently wait for their own personal Godots, or transports of delight, which are frequently transports of frustration. Airports have become temples to travel, to restlessness, anxiety and occasional smidgens of the utmost joy. We allow ourselves to be marshalled, sent hither thither. We pay astronomical sums to receive second rate food and be bombarded by brand name luxury and, ultimately, damn useless fripperies. It is the warm-up before the main act. All the world’s a stage, especially airports. They stage our entrances and our exits, bring forth new vistas and return us to old. We transit, transitioning from carefully routined lives into daydreams having the potential to become nightmares. It is that knife-edge frisson which thrills.

I sit, uncomfortable, at the bulkhead, with the unmistakable aroma of toilet drifting through the dubiously brown curtained area. The wreck of today's breakfast sits on a yet to be collected tray. Crumpled pots of natural low fat yoghurt tower over plastic squares of nibbled pineapple (sour), uneaten crepe (soggy), plastic and foil wrapping discards. It is a waste, and waste which is yet to find its way from my table, just as the coffee has yet to find its way to it. Brian Eno’s ‘Burning Airlines’ (give you so much more) echoes through my head as we travel to Doha.

The second part of the journey eventually takes us out of those lands of sand, as we head finally, and at last, to northern Spain, to Barcelona airport and the land of Vicky Cristina Barcelona. What a long strange trip it's been (quoting the Grateful Dead who, incidentally, played Barcelona Sports Palace in 1981). On this, the second leg of the trip, the air staff have run out of the least inedible option of food, so no choice but to endure the cottage cheese filled omelette with a mere suggestion of cubed potatoes. The antique plane offers no way to recharge digital devices, no onboard Wifi, and no USB slot to play my own music. The lack of those little luxuries, coupled with a very limited film choice on screens smaller than my iPad, adds to the tedium of an extremely long, long haul flight. We have barely escaped desert lands (is that Sting and his Rose I hear) and still have three plus hours before we reach our preferred second home, in Catalonia.

The touch down is entirely welcome. It could not have been more so.

But things have changed...

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14

Actually day one

Aeropuerto de Barcelona – El Prat, has changed. It has changed in one very significant way. There is no train station at Terminal 1 anymore. It has moved to Terminal 2. True it is only a short bus ride away, but when you are short on time and hope to catch one particular train, it does become significant. I ask at Informació, it is there that I learn of the changes. So, instead of catching an easy train through to Figueres, we seek a bus. The slow and expensive (€25 each) Sagalés bus (aka the Barcelona Bus) runs from Figueres to Girona and onwards to Terminal 1, El Prat airport. It also does the same trip in reverse.

Whilst looking for the train station at Terminal 1, which no longer exists, we chance upon the Bus Station. It is downstairs, or down lift if you are dragging an unusually green suitcase. I, perhaps a little hopefully and a little excitedly, walk up and down the row of slumbering coaches.

Towards the end of the row, and just as my grip on reality is loosening, one coach seems very familiar. It bears that unmistakable legend, tucked behind its windscreen, partly hidden by the windscreen wiper Figueres, Girona, Barcelona. I ask the driver, and yes, he will transport us to Figueres, after he has rested for ten minutes, he says in broken English. That fare, €25 each is not an inconsiderable amount, especially if converted to Malaysian Ringgit, which I am advised, by she who knows, not to do. The journey through Catalonia, past spindly trees striped bare by the season, flaming bushes of orange and gold, and a sky transforming from eggshell blue, becoming roseate then dark, is three and a half hours. Tedium is mixed with expectation, and the gentle rocking of the Catalonian bus.

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Our amazingly congenial host Jacques (like Frère Jacques, he explains) meets us at the Figueres bus station. We are whisked away through Figueres town, past the very Christmassy La Rambla, along streets teeming with inhabitants wearing dark winter clothes, through a maze of backstreets, until we triumphantly arrive. Our apartment is Atico, a penthouse. The lift (Només 4 persones, or 4 persons only) brings us up into a small hall before we enter a spacious, airy apartment, full of necessities needed for a 15 day stay in a wintery northern Spain.

We meet Dominique (as in the 1960s song), Jacques’ wife. The heating is on, and most welcome it is too. Jacques is an architect who still paints. There are oils of rectangular Spanish houses, and of seagulls dancing stylistic aerial flamencos, which grace the walls of Atico. After our hosts have given us the grand tour, made us feel most welcome and assured us that we can contact them in an instant should we have the need, the wish or the desire to do so, we take a brief look around, check the most important Wifi password and, of course, the key to our newly found cosy little kingdom. We then head out to the nearest mini-market, to get the basics for dinner and breakfast. We cook, eat and crash. The day has been exceedingly long (due to the time shift from East to West), and exhausting.

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day too

I sit here at 4am. I drink Lipton Tea (from bags carried in our luggage from Malaysia, as if you cannot get Lipton's tea in Spain. You can, of course) and eat Bunyols de vent (Catalan doughnuts). I am not quite wide awake, but write nevertheless. My phone tells me that the outside temperature is minus two degrees celsius. Happy (brrr) holidays.

Later Slaughtering time while we wait for son from Ireland to arrive at Figueres railway station (on the much cheaper Rodalies de Catalunya line) we end up at the La Rambla Christmas Market. The ‘stalls’, are in reality small wooden chalets which proffer food, baubles and/or nativity scenes for Christmas buyers. As we stand, ahead of us, at the top of La Rambla, masking the Cafeteria Astoria, is a huge Christmas tree, bedecked with blue lights (stunning at night).

Chocolate covered churros vie with preserved meats, Embotits Casolans de Planoles (pork sausages from Planoles), a thousand flower honeys (Mel Mil Flors) and a multitude of cheeses, including Llet de Cabres Catalans (Catalonian Goat Milk Cheese) from Emporda, vie for our attention.

The experienced purveyors of Neules i Polvorons Artesans (artisan crumbly Spanish biscuits), proffer bite-sized morsels for the delectation of the potential purchaser, hoping they will buy. The inexperienced stall holders simply ramble on about their wares with no taster in sight. Teeth shattering sweetmeats and marvellously milky cheeses slip down nicely, some with a little more effort than others.

The Catalan defecating man (the Caganer) is everywhere on the stalls.

Some are small, though not cheap. Figurines of Caganer sit alongside nativity donkeys, Christ figures, Mary and Joseph. Wooden log versions of the defecating man (Caga Tió) have Christmas hats which strangely resemble the traditional Catalan red barretina (hat) in this fiercely proud, independence seeking, Catalan city. One Caganer is made entirely of chocolate, rather like a defecating Easter Bunny.

The Catalan El Caganer dates back to the late 17th century. The Baroque period.

Originally he was not in the Christmas nativity scene, but was depicted on tiles, telling stories. He became popular as a nativity character during 19th century, and has lasted as a wry, down to earth comment on the more esoteric notions of mankind, sometimes with popular figures’ faces 18

Tortell de reis

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Figueres Chri

A stark treed La Rambla with Winter Market

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istmas Market

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Catalan s

Goat's milk cheeses

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sausages

Hams

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Catalan biscuits galore

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Chocolate Churros

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Regional beer

Wild honey

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day too cont.

(like Donald Trump), right up until this very day.

Ireland living son has arrived safely. He plants Irish scented Malaysian feet on the same platform where we had once met our American diploma friend, Julion, some years previously. The weather, previously only encountered in fridges and freezers in Malaysia, continues to heap its cool upon us. Sneaky ice-cold blasts of wind hide round corners waiting to shock us, turning lips and other exposed extremities dry, playfully rustling our clothes and puffing at the last remaining yellowed leaves, until they fall.

After the inevitable ‘hail-fellow-well-met’, hugs all round, and Instead of hightailing it to Hotel Duran and eating some of the very best food around or, indeed, me cooking, we are all a little too tired and too hungry to wait. Instead, we dive into my favourite Middle Eastern ‘restaurant’ in Figueres, El Racó del Viatger (The Traveller's Corner), for lunch. This eatery is, handily, on the way back from the railway station, and on the corner just next to the bus station. El Racó del Viatger was once called Pintxo’s Bar at 16 Plaça de l'Estació, and is an unprepossessing eatery, simple, no frills, with a bus station feel to it. However, sometimes the very best meals are taken at very simple places, and that is doubly true of El Racó del Viatger. My other half and I have been eating there for a number of years now, before the new owners and the name change. Their Middle Eastern food is amazing. Sometimes, just sometimes, we need a break from ‘Fine Dining’, tapas and paella. Although, on this occasion, and maybe it is because of Christmas approaching, the Couscous de Pollastre (chicken couscous) is unavailable. Instead, we order their other speciality - a Tajine de Vedella (meat tajine). A tajine or tagine, is a North African/ Moroccan dish named after the heavy clay, earthenware, pot in which it is steamed - a conical shaped tajine. Traditionally a tajine is a slow cooked stew of either meat, vegetables or meat and vegetables with include ground cinnamon, saffron, ginger, turmeric, cumin, paprika, pepper, as well as the famous spice blend Ras el hanout (often translated as Head of the Shop, and includes - coriander seeds, cumin seeds, crushed chilli flakes, ground cinnamon, paprika, ground cardamom, ground ginger and ground turmeric. I usually substitute Harissa).

As well as the tajine we order a ‘Couscous Royal’ (couscous with steamed vegetables including chickpeas), ‘Bistec’ (a thin steak of beef ), a salad, and ‘Pinxos Moronos’ (which translates as a selection of skewered meat/ sausage) and share those multiple dishes between the four of us. It was as we could have hoped for. We were satiated (until dinner time that is), and welcomed the walk back to the Atico apartment.

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El Racรณ del Viatger menu cover

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Couscous Royal

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Bistec

Pinxos Moronos

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Iberian ham

Ireland living son has brought goodies from Ireland. In return, we shower him with instant noodles from Malaysia, multiple packets of dry curries, and not quite instant Bak Kut Teh. All are happy. The long day wears on. Thoughts of dinner arise. Food again, after such a big lunch, well, the boys are hungry in the cold weather and they were promised a paella. Not just any paella, but a paella from Hotel Duran.

At Hotel Duran’s restaurant we treat ourselves to a tapa of thinly sliced cured Iberian ham, a speciality of the region, and another tapa of divine Cod Brandade croquettes, as starters. They vanish as quickly as they are placed on the table. Then comes the magnificent lobster paella. It is a real ‘ta, da’, moment as our waiter friends hold the dish before us. We revel in that sight, then revel in its taste. The paella presents reddened langoustines (also known as small, knobbly, Norwegian lobsters) and an array of fresh (and preserved) seafood jostling with spiced rice, peas and host of lemon wedges. It is the paella of our dreams, and all washed down with Damm Lemon beer (6 parts of Estrella Damm beer and 4 parts of Mediterranean lemons, and a slight touch of lime, or so the website tells me). For dessert is Hotel Duran’s most famous Crema Cremada (or burnt cream), with its hard caramelised sugar topping, purportedly mentioned in Spain’s first cook book (Llibre de Sent Soví) in the 14th century and again in the Llibre de Coch, written by Ruperto de Nola, the head cook to Alfonso V, the count of Barcelona and King of Aragon in the 1400s. As the evening wears on, my other half introduces her sons to the Catalan porrón (wine decanter).

She drinks, elegantly, from the pitcher, holding it several inches from her mouth, letting the sweet wine pour into her mouth and down her throat without hesitation. There is a round of applause.

Her younger son, not to be beaten, pulls the wine for longer, higher. This Malaysian Chinese young man is an instant expert with the porrón, much to everyone’s surprise.

Llibre de Sent Soví

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Llibre de Coch

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Paella mariner Paella, fisherman's style with langoustine

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ra amb llagosta

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Daliesque lights

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day three

Four, practically, adult people into a one bathroom apartment do not go. There is this endless wait for the ‘facilities’. Not meaning to boast, but in most, even simple, homes in Malaysia, there are at the very least two WCs, normally two or three actual bathrooms, replete with toilet facilities and each with a shower. This morning there is an agonising hour or two wait while young Princes and a much older Princess gel themselves, perfume and pomander whatever they can reach. It is a beautiful apartment, and one which I could heartily recommend for, perhaps, two (not four) intimate, or very patient, people.

To introduce the young men to tapas (tapes in Catalan), we took them along to Lizarran, where fresh tapas and pintxo were walked out of the kitchen, and around the seated customers, before being placed in their covered containers along the top of the bar. This practise feels very much like Chinese (Cantonese) Dim Sum.

Lizarran tapas and pintxo

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Fresh Foo

Figu

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Ox Heart Tomato

od Market

ueres

RegularTomato

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Saffron Milk Cap Mushroom

Like many Catalan markets. Figueres market brings the freshest seasonal fruit and vegetables into the heart of the city.

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Pears

Peppers

Marketing becomes a mouth watering exercise, choosing from the best of the best mushrooms, peppers and even ripe juicy pears.

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Only the freshest

Olives

Artichokes

Cheeses Salted Cod 44

Fresh Eggs

Trompetes Broccoli 45

Passeig de Grà day five, or so

Louis Vuitton ‘Masters’ series

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We catch the train to Passeig de Gràcia, Barcelona, from the old Figueres Rail Station (Estación de Tren de Figueres). We walk between the rail station at Passeig de Gràcia and La Sagrada Familia (the Sacred Family), Barcelona’s iconic Antoni Gaudí (i Cornet) designed cathedral. The walk is as interesting as it is long. Now known as Spain’s most expensive street, Passeig de Gràcia had once connected the two towns of Gràcia and Barcelona. In 1906 the architect Pere Falqués i Urpí designed that street’s ornate benches and street-lights in the new Modernist style. Other Modernist (modernista/Art Nouveau) architects such as Antoni Gaudí, Pere Falqués, Josep Puig i Cadafalch, Lluís Domènech i Montaner, Enric Sagnier and Josep Vilaseca each had a hand in designing that, now very up-market, area.

The walk reveals LUPO designed handbags inspired by Gaudí. In the 1920s the Morenete family, who continue to own Lupo Barcelona, were dedicated leather craftsmen making suitcases, small portable wardrobes and wide-bottomed chests. It was only natural that the well established leather goods company should set its sights on another of Barcelona’s epic designers, Antoni Gaudí, and begin making handbags using design elements from Barcelona’s most famous son.

Not to be topped by LUPO’s Gaudí handbags, Passeig de Gràcia also proffers the Louis Vuitton ‘Masters’ series of accessories designed in collaboration with American artist Jeff Koons.The Masters collection uses Jeff Koons's Gazing Ball series of paintings and handpainted reproductions of art masterpieces, recreating works by Claude Monet, Paul Gauguin, Édouard Manet, Nicolas Poussin, and J.M.W. Turner on their Vuitton wares. A second series includes Gauguin, Manet, Turner, Monet, and Boucher on bags such as their Speedy, Keepall and Neverfull with the names of those master artists prominent across them.

àcia

LUPO Designed handbags inspired by Gaudí

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The sprint to La Sagrada Familia, to meet with Joan, a Catalan architect (and sketcher) friend, is well worth the effort. However, a jungle of stalls have sprung up around the Sagrada Familia site since my last visit. Many of them are taking advantage of the festive season and selling live Christmas trees. There are, also, variations on a pomander theme and, surprisingly enough, mistletoe. I explain the kissing custom to my other half. She does not quite get the significance, and is, ultimately, not impressed.

Kissing under the mistletoe, it seems, had begun in ancient Greece, with the festival of Saturnalia, and because of that plant's association with fertility. In Victorian times you dare not refuse a kiss under the mistletoe, unless you were adverse to marriage proposals for at least a year. Some say that a kisser is entitled to one kiss per berry under the mistletoe. I didn’t try.

Aside from seasonal paraphernalia, stalls hold various versions of El Caganer (see above). One company, caganer.com, has a stall specialising in depicting the famous and well known, pooping figures. From Bart and Homer Simpson, to Batman, Superman and Spiderman, to Jon Snow Parc Güell of Game of Thrones and Spock from Star Trek all are seen with their trousers down, and a small fecal turd already excreted. The Pixene, or pisser, is a standing alternative.

While my other half and friend Joan sketch La Sagrada Familia, to their hearts’ delight, and to the delight of mixed Chinese and Japanese tourists, I wander off, curious about the area. Leaving the small park where my friends are sketching, I first encounter a game of ‘Bitlles Catalanes’.

It resembles ‘skittles, but with bottles shaped wood instead of spherical balls. These are flung, heartedly, at wooden skittles some distance away.

Like the French ‘boules’, or Pétanque, it seems to be a game for older men.

The Barcelona Bus Turistic (tourist bus) had seemed like such a good idea. It probably was, when I first caught it to Parc Güell some many, many years ago. Back then, the bus pulled up outside the park itself, making it easy for tourists to hop on and hop off at their convenience, and delight.

That has all changed. The Bus Turistic, whose La Sagrada Familia stop is now two whole blocks walking distance from the monument itself, has unceremoniously dropped us at their predestined Parc Güell spot. It is nowhere near Parc Güell, and a seemingly vast (and at this very moment, undetermined) distance from Güell’s park. The four of us are trudging

Bitlles Catalanes

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El Caganer

La Sagrada Familia

behind another group exiting from the bus. That group seem to have about as much clue about their direction as we have.

Although we seem to be enduring, my British damaged knee tells me otherwise. I slow down, huff and puff about the lack of respect for tourists and, eventually, we arrive most disgruntled, here in Parc Güell. We are buying tickets to a park which had previously been free. It seems that local residents have complained about the numbers of tourists visiting the park, so it is now regulated. That aside, two thirds of the area I have paid to see are inaccessible to tourists now. I confess to being somewhat overly miffed.

Yes, I do understand that areas like Parc Güell have to be preserved and conserved, but why not just shut down the paid area, complete the renovations, then reopen it when those repairs are finished. Instead we pay to enter an area which more resembles a builder’s yard than it does the public park Gaudí originally designed for Eusebi Güell i Bacigalupi, the first Count of Güell. The park system has encouraged us to travel in one direction. We exit at the exit. Unfortunately the exit we have exited through is nowhere near the Bus Turistic stop where we began our most arduous journey to Parc Güell. I confess, we are lost.

Our long day is getting longer. Although we had been fortified with (small) cups of café amb llet (local coffee with milk), donuts and a fleeting visit to Subway Sandwiches for a hot sandwich for lunch in sight of Gaudí‘s masterpiece, the trawl through the Parc and the Gràcia area of Barcelona has taken its toll. Fortunately the woman I am with has no qualms about seeking assistance from passersby. She is a woman, and Chinese. We now follow directions to the Metro, then back to the railway station at Passeig de Gràcia, and an hour’s wait for a very slow Rodalies de Catalunya (Renfe) train back to Figueres. At least it doesn’t rain.

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poma

for Chr

The sights and the scents 50

ander

ristmas

s are simply intoxicating 51

Barcelona

Fira de Nadal de la Sagrada F (Christmas Fair)

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FamĂ­lia

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www.kalidmedieval.com

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Something like day six

Today I go marketing, solo. My other half and her two ‘boys’ are, once again, off to Barcelona. I was left instructions to make the Chinese dish Bak Kut Teh (simply translated as Pork Bone Soup). It involves, well, the rib bones of a pig. First catch your pig........

Bak Kut Teh sachet

Yesterday I passed a botiga de carnisseria (butcher’ shop), near the Figueres market place, on our way back to our rented apartment from the railway station. The Thursday Market is simply amazing. I cannot resist buying some of the incredible, and incredibly fresh, vegetables.

They are not only fresh, but large, practically a joy to (literally) behold.

I have to stop myself from buying huge troops, ropes, pods and hills of this most delectable market produce. At it is, my bag is getting heavier, and heavier with Bell Peppers, huge Spanish Spring Onions and the curiously sculptural tomatoes found here.

Buying pork ribs and hefty, marrow laden, bones at a Figueres butcher’s involves no end of play-acting on my behalf. My Castilian Spanish is slight. It is, maybe, enough to order one or two things, and my Catalan is significantly less than that. Asking for pork ribs involves pointing to my ribs and snorting, in the vague hope that my request, somehow, gets across. The snorting works. However, I have to repeat the rib poking a few times, until the very patient butcher catches on. I espy big bones sitting in a bowl, right in front of me. I point, and two significant porcine 58

bones are purchased.

I return to the market, opposite, and buy a Christmas poinsettia for she who is in Barcelona. I am feeling a little guilty that I haven't bought her flowers for some time. On the way back to the Atico apartment, I get a round loaf from the bread shop, just thirty seconds stroll from our Airbnb. Across the road, a shop sells ready prepared Catalan meals. I buy a Bacalao a la Catalana, or Cod, Catalan style, with pine nuts and raisins in a slightly sweet sauce, for lunch. Next, I need to get soy sauce. No Bak Kut Teh is complete without soy sauce. I forgot the soy sauce. I took my eagerly purchased purchases back to Atico, looked at the preparations for Bak Kut Teh, and only then remember that I had forgotten the soy sauce.

So off I go again.

The small green grocer opposite the bread shop has no soy sauce, and so toddle off to the nearest Spar supermarket. It’s wonderful to have all these amazing places within walking distance. This is something I miss in my Malaysian rented home, which seems miles from markets, mini or otherwise.

Being a man, when I walk into a supermarket to buy soy sauce - I buy soy sauce, exit and walk back. Unlike some women, whom I shall not mention, who would walk into a supermarket, spend an enormous amount of money and time, then forget to purchase the one thing they went in for, probably soy sauce.

Curiously, the only two types of soy sauce available at the Spar not quite so mini-market (on the Carrer del Compositor Abdó Mundí), are the Japanese Kikoman soy sauce with the now iconic small bottle designed by Kenji Ekuan and, surprise, surprise, a sauce claiming to be ‘Soja’, Asian Sauce, made by Heinz (yes the baked bean people). I buy the Heinz, probably more out of curiosity than anything else and, when back at the apartment search the WWW. and discover that the Heinz company had, in 2010, bought out the Chinese Foodstar company, based in Guangzhou, hence adding soy sauce to the Heinz brand.

Bacalao a la Catalana

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Bak Kut Teh

I am assembling the ingredients for Bak Kut Teh. I have my little checklist in operation. Meat bones, check, Pigs’ Ribs, check, Garlic, check, Soy Sauce, check, one Packet of dried Chinese herbs and spices, check.

Actually, the packet contains two overly large t-bag type bags which are used in a similar fashion, only these contain (he says reading the ingredients) Szechwan Lovage Rhizome, Chinese Angelica, Rehmannia Glutinosa, Huay San, Star Anise, Cinnamon, Special Herbals (whatever they are), Seasoning and an Anti Caking Agent, probably a kitchen assistant of some kind. I am far too busy to take photos, so I cannot show you the meat bones boiling for hours, nor the putting in of the pork ribs and herby t-bags, garlic (whole bulbs) and soy sauce. Only one solitary image was taken. However, the whole was ready some many hours later when the family arrived back, after a long day in Barcelona, playing with the Bus Turistic. The, now soft, meat falls from the pork bones exactly as it should.

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girona

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Beautiful Girona is alive with intriquing backstreets and steps

We have taken the Rodalies de Catalunya/Renfe train from Figueres to King’s Landing and Braavos, otherwise known as the Catalonian city of Girona, and all for a whopping €4.47 each. I jest, it is very cheap.

It wasn’t until a friend sent a YouTube video, that I realised that many episodes of the HBO TV series Game of Thrones were shot in Girona old town. Of course the old town of Girona is a splendid place. It positively reeks of antiquity, mystery and a more courageous past. Girona has a history spanning two thousand years, from the 1st to 10th century Roman settlement at Força Vella, to the latter fortifications of 14th and 15th centuries of the Medieval Quarter. The old Jewish Quarter (called the Call), the beautiful streets, porticoed squares, and Noucentisme-style buildings by architect Rafael Masó, all lend an air of antiquity and majesty to that Catalan city, making it most suitable for fantasy TV shows.

Winter is coming, and winter in Girona means fewer tourists of course, not to mention a new found ability to actually see buildings, unobstructed by selfie taking foreign bodies or trees burgeoning with masking, green, leaves. I can see right through trees’ stick-like branches which, in other places and other times, might be considered golden boughs, to the brilliantly blue sky offsetting the slight chill in the air. The sun’s rays, now golden tinged, highlight those antique buildings mentioned earlier. Deep shadows, and that graceful golden countenance of the buildings, coupled 64

There are amazing alleyways too

Steps, endless steps

with the stunningly blue sky, gives a satisfyingly fantasy ambiance to the whole, and recollections of Game of Thrones.

It is Saturday. Today is the Craft Market (Made in Girona, fira d’artesania) on Girona’s El Pont de Pedra (Bridge of Stone). One stall, Egalia Artesanía, looks as though it might still be part of Game of Thrones. I can almost imagine Arya Stark, blind assassin, sitting by the stall, on the watch out for her intended victim, or her assassin master Jaqen H’ghar, as faceless as ever, swinging, mysteriously by. The stall holder (who incidentally lives not far from Figueres, in Vilabertrán) is selling handmade talismans, minor gemstones, brooches and a whole host of items which bring that series theme tune (penned by Ramin Djawadi, the Iranian-German composer) to mind. I give the stall the once, then twice over, buy a trinket for my ever loyal and faithful partner, and off I go singing dum, dum, dum dum dum de dum, soto voce.

Another Gironian street market presents a bed of flaming poinsettias, instant reminders of the coming Christmas Day (Nadal), as I wend my way through half empty streets, past galleria sellers of confectionary, emporia proffering myriad bottles of liquor, ice creams too cold to consider, sweet chocolate pâtisseries and one emporium presenting dried peppercorns from Madagascar, Japanese Wasabi and Harissa from Morocco. The shop assistant’s father too, is from Morocco, I discover.

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Elfin talismans straight from Rivendell or Lรณrien

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Egalia

Artesania

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Magical amulets

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Tantalising trinkets

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Lapis lazuli

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https://www.facebook.com/pg/Egalia.jewelry.energy/about/ 74

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Owner of Egalia ArtesanĂ­a with Malaysian artist Honey Khor

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ART WILL SAV

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VEColors THEof WORLD Cambodia Colors of Cambodia offers time, materials and a safe place for the children of Siem Reap to develop a sense of self belief and self worth. Colors of Cambodia enables students to recognise, and develop children' artistic voices and unique styles. Children come to understand that art can be both an expression and a profession, for we at Colors of Cambodia truly believe that art will save the world. # 270 Mundull 1 Village, Sway DongKum Commune Siem Reap District, Cambodia Telephone: 855 (0) 63965021 Telephone: 855 (0) 12214336 - Phany Email: colors@colorsofcambodia.org http://www.colorsofcambodia.org/

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port lligat

Dali's home until the death of Gala in 1982

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Dalí's urchins We are not long back in Figueres, when the roaming bug bites again.

The long and winding road driven by the Moventis Sarfa bus from Figueres to Cadaqués acts as an emetic to those unused to the rush and the swerve of a Sarfa bus. We are slung from side to side in that over warm bus and am already feeling nauseous before I reach the death defying Pení Mountain ride. We are stopped, briefly, at Roses. It is just enough time for us to catch our collective breaths, and then the bus is off again, pelting along the Costa Brava with many of us not feeling very brave at all. Mountains and valleys come and go, just like the first flushes of love. Finally, we arrive at Cadaqués. I feel like James Bond’s favourite Martini tipple, shaken not stirred, but without the olive. Nevertheless, the whole family are eager to tramp our green gilled way to Port Lligat, and (for some of us ) re-visit Salvador Dalí’s former home.

It is a twenty minute walk from Cadaqués to Port Lligat, along the Cap de Creus peninsula. The day, fortunately, is sunny. It has clear blue skies and an unruffled Mediterranean sea, which gives up its spiny urchins (in Catalan garoines, scientifically -Paracentrotus lividus) to local fishermen, who place them, carefully, in a large blue plastic barrel. Sea urchins were prized by the ancient Greeks, especially Aristotle, over two thousand years ago. Cadaqués locals still gather on the beach, during the winter months when the urchins are at their best, and celebrate with their ‘garoinada’, or sea urchin feast. The urchins are taken with red wine, fresh bread and sometimes with lemon juice. Nota bene, Hotel Duran, in Figueres, receives its sea urchins from Port de la Selva as the Port Lligat urchins are in critical short supply.

Salvador Dalí had been filmed at Port Lligat (in 1957, by rtve.es) receiving a wooden box chock full of sea urchins, from a local fisherman whose boat is numbered BA 61810. Sea urchins were favoured both

by Salvador Dalí, and his father. Perhaps these are ancestors of those fishermen I encounter. In the black and white film it is a cold day. Dalí wears a long coat, his hair ruffled by the winter wind.

There is no Summertime hustle or bustle. The purchase of tickets to look into Dalí’s house is dignified, no pushing nor shoving. Inside the house there is room enough, and time enough, to gaze in awe and 82

The polar bear (from Alaska) was a gift of British eccentric Edward James, 1934.

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The egg as a symbol of hope and rebirth

Port Lligat Sea Urchins

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The Fountain of Youth

wonder at the collections which had entertained that foremost Surrealist before the death of his mentor, wife and muse, Gala (Elena Ivanovna Diakonova Dalí), in 1982.

We are greeted by an enormous, stuffed, Polar Bear. My mind momentarily swivels to Lorek Byrnison, the armoured Polar Bear hero in Phillip Pulman’s His Dark Materials, but soon races back to Dalí and Gala and their unusual relationship. The bear is a prelude to the library, studio, three D glasses, a white statue of ‘David’ replete with fencing mask and a large black and white engraving of a sea urchin, which, according to hotelier Sr. Lluís Duran Simon, was Dalí‘s favourite dish at his restaurant in Figueres. Dried yellow Tansy flowers (Golden Buttons) grace nooks and crannies in Dalí‘s house. They rest above curtains, on shelves and were a favourite of Gala. The, ever present, female guide suggests that yellow Tansy is also a symbol for Catalonia. Dalí was fiercely Catalan.

Although Catalonia had felt snubbed by Dalí‘s final will, which left his entire estate, properties and paintings, not to Catalonia, but to the (Castilian) nation.

The relationship between Dalí and Catalonia had long been uneasy.

Especially with Dalí courting the very Fascists whose faction had been responsible for the murder of his intimate friend, the Spanish poet Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca (Lorca), and Catalonia being a bastion of rival Communist sympathisers. But Catalonia’s capital, Barcelona, has finally forgiven Dalí his eccentrics, his early sympathies with Hitler (see Dalí’s 1939 The Enigma of Hitler, and the quote ‘Hitler turned me on in the highest’, from his book The Unspeakable Confessions of Salvador Dalí). There are plans to create a public square in his Dalí’s honour, though this has not materialised in the twenty eight years since Dalí’s death. Perhaps he is not quite forgiven, by all.

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The horn of the rhinoceros, former uniceros, is in fact the horn of the legendary unicorn... DalĂ­

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Inside Dalí’s Port Lligat home he collected a plethora of objects for inspiration and delight.

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The Snail is linked to a significant event in Dalí’s life, his meeting with Sigmund Freud. Dalí’ saw a snail on a bicycle outside Freud’s house and connected it with Freud’s head.

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cans

Riera de San Vicent, 9, 17488 CadaquĂŠs, Girona, S

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shelabi

Spain

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carles bros 'Make the pencil stand out' From Catalonian inspirations and inspirations from China, Catalan artist Carles Bros, once a fisherman painter, now a full-time artist, born in Terrassa, 1956, goes back to basics.

Back to the humble pencil, its marks, its shavings as icons of a previous technology yet permanent reminders of art historical mastery.

On the walls, Bros uses paint with natural pigments, latex, sand or marble powder to give texture.

Here are images from his latest exhibition in Figueres, at the Museu EmpordĂ .

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Chistmas time

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It had been a very long wait but, finally, there we were, as a family.

It was Christmas Day. It was the treat that I had promised the two boys and my very patient wife.

Eat, drink and be merry, choose from SeĂąor Duran's finest on this day of merriment and wassailing 105

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Bon Nadal

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Cargoles de Muntanya Snails Catalan style

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Garotes de mar

del port de la Selva gratinades amb branques de l’Albera i poma verda Sea urchins from Port de la Selva au gratin with Albera's pastry sticks and green apple

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Medallons de rap am i cloïsses a l’estil de Cadaqués

Medallions of monkfish with prawns and clams with Cadaqués

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mb gamba style sauce

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Tords albardats

amb canssalada, ou fregit de guatlla, patata palla Thrushes with bacon, fried quail egg, potato straws

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Llom de llebre

salsa de fruits vermells, marrons glacĂŠ Saddle of hare with red fruits sauce, marron glacĂŠ

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Perdiu vermella rostida i flamejada, patata palla

Roast wild partridge flamed with brandy, potato straws

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Civet d’espatlla

de senglar amb bolets a l’estil tradicional Wild boar with mushrooms

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peres en vi Pears in wine

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Creppes Suzette Crepes Suzette

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Sorbets de la Casa House sorbet

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Cruixent de tiramisĂş Crusty Tiramisu

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Carpaccio de pinya Pineapple carpaccio

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Con un poco de a amigos en With a little help from

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ayuda de nuestros n Peralada our friends in Peralada

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C/ Lasauca, 5, 17600 Figueres Catalonia Sp

pain T. 972 501 250 info@hotelduran.com

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Dia de Sant Esteve (St. Stephen's Day or Boxing Day)

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Today is what I call Boxing Day, but here in Catalonia they call Saint Stephen's Day. Here the 26th of December belongs to St Stephen, who is also known as San Esteban or Sant Esteve, and was an early Christian martyr who died for heresy against Moses and the Jewish incarnation of God. For me, ‘Saint Stephen’ is a gentle 1967 song by the Grateful Dead (from their album Aoxomoxoa), however, the day is celebrated across Spain as a day off from work. We wander around Figueres and discover, true enough, that the majority of stores are closed. There is only the occasional eating place open, and a smattering of Xurreries - pastry shops where you can buy a Xuixo, the Catalan version of a filled Viennese pastry, or a tortell (a ring shaped tart, frequently filled with custard).

Lunch is taken back at Shang Hai, and with the attentiveness of the owner, Fermin, whose family originated in Taiwan. It is one of the few places open and ever a standby for its good Cantonese/Taiwanese cuisine. Fermin, over the years, has become a family friend.

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Carrer de la Jonquera, 8, Figueres 134

Carrer de Peralada, Figueres 135

On Saint Stephen's Day, there is only the occasional eating place open, and a smattering of Xurreries pastry shops where you can buy a Xuixo, the Catalan version of a filled Viennese pastry, or a tortell (a ring shaped tart, frequently filled with custard). Or, mmm donuts.

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A FartÓ or Farton is a long Catalan pastry drizzled with icing sugar.

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EnsaĂŻmada are warm, yeast-based cakes fashioned into round, coiled shapes.

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one woman

Every so often a book appears that reveals and illuminates a project that might otherwise remain largely unknown by the outside world: ‘Colors of Cambodia’ is such a book. This is a highly personal and passionate account written by Martin Bradley and illustrated by Pei Yeou Bradley of her encounter with a remarkable art-based project in and around Siem Reap in Cambodia, and how she was drawn into practical involvement with the children for whom the project exists.

The book shows how a small NGO run by William Gentry in Siem Reap has been able to reach out to children in local schools, some in areas of great poverty, through the medium of art, and to give them hope for the future in a country that has suffered so much. The children and their families who are drawn into the project prove how art can cross all borders of language and culture. The book also tells of how Malaysian children and their parents have been encouraged to support the project and to become involved with the children and their work.

This is a highly personal and passionate account written by Martin B remarkable art-based project in and around Siem Reap in Cambodia, for whom the 140

n’s journey

And there is the additional touch of magic as Pei Yeou and Martin tell of their meeting and of how he too was drawn into the story, and contributes to it, and of how it changed his life. His sensitive words and poetry add another colour to this unique book In a world in which the news is bad more often than not, this inspirational book tells a story of optimism and success, and of how dreams can become true.

Richard Noyce, Artist and Writer, Wales, July 2012 contact honeykhor@gmail.com martinabradley@gmail.com http://colorsofcambodia.org/

Bradley and illustrated by Pei Yeou Bradley of her encounter with a , and how she was drawn into practical involvement with the children project exists.

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an eveni

Jacques

SeĂąor Dupuy's spaciously comfortable basement art gallery

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ing with

s Dupuy

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An amazing homemade sun tart which was every bit as delicious as it looks.

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Jacques Dupuy, of Airbnb hosts Dominique and Jacques, draws up in his ancient Mercedes Benz. The evening is chill, but the car’s heater and Jacques’ conversation prevents the chill extending to the relationship forming. Dominique and Jaques host an intimate soirée in the house that Jacques built, and has designed. Food designed by Dominique.

Dominique, it turns out, is an accomplished jewellery maker, taking after her French ceramicist mother, and Jacques, not just an architect and boat builder, but a painter too. Jacques’ gallery of paintings rests outside, downstairs from their house, effectively filling the entire space below their bungalow style residence. To one end of the space rests a four poster bed, suspended from the ceiling by silvered chains, delicately wrapped with a fine white muslin, and green scatter cushions. Broad leafed yams contrast the concrete and grey painted plywood flooring. It is an area masked from the cold of December, secluded from all except those who know of it presence, or can hear the graceful sounds when Jacques plays his acoustic guitar, then rests, at this moment on a black cushion, masking the roughness of a wooden palette.

Ceramic busts of Ethiopia and other countries in Africa, made by Dominique‘s mother, form a mainstay of the house’s interior design, with objets d'art from the couple’s extensive travels in Asia, mingling with more of Jacques’ paintings. Laos, Vietnam and Thailand feature heavily throughout, with silverwork and wood highlighting fabrics and a square of exotic plants (including yam and banana). While these are surprising enough in themselves, the greatest surprise greets me outside, before I learn of the others. Jamie has been with Dominique and Jacques for sixteen years. They acquired her in Ibiza, where they lived before venturing to Catalonia, but that is not the surprise. Although to all intents and purposes Jamie is doglike, she is in fact - a wolf. There is no barking from Jamie, only howling when she was younger and more assertive. She is aged now, one paw arthritic, but still keen on greeting the visitor. There is the look of Alsatian about Jamie, but more intensified, more wolflike, and there is very little doubt that she is what she is, a wolf. I could imagine Jacques, in younger times, strolling with Jamie, a little like that iconic photograph of Robert Plant and his wolfhounds.

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Empordàlia, Our friend, hotelier and gourmet Ramon, now a littler greyer on top and a little more portly round his girth, picks us up this afternoon. We wrap to keep out the increasing wind and cool winter as we are to travel further into Catalonia’s north eastern tip of Empordà, to the winery Empordàlia, Celler de Vilajuïga (arrelats a la terra - rooted in the earth) to see wine and olive oil being made, and then on to the village of Pau (peace) where the company has its main shop. Empordàlia is a collective of the Empordà region – those of Pau, Roses and Vilajuïga. Began in 1947 with a cooperative in Vilajuïga. Later came both Pau (1961) and Roses.

Before we reach, Ramon points out a group of gnarled olives trees. They are kept separate from the main orchards. ‘At least one of the trees, if not more, are over a thousand years old’ he says.

I think he is joking. He is assuredly not. He repeats what he had just said, adding that the trees still produce olives. Stunned by this we reach, and are taken on a tour to see olives crushed and processed into olive oil, using the very latest technology.

The wine bottling has finished for the day, but we can still see some bottles in crates with the label ‘Empordàlia, Rosat Brut Nature, Sparkling Wine, Empordà Denominación D’ Origen. A sparkling, dry, rosé wine using Grenache and Carignan grape varieties.

In the neighbouring village of Pau we are led through the wine making process, and into the wine cellars where we see wines resting in oaken casks, some ready for bottling. However, I must say that the wine and olive oil tasting is the highlight.

One glass of three different wines has left me a little giddy, even with the three excellent samples of local tapas, and the absorbent bread to soak up the fruity, green, olive oil. I clear my head enough to buy a bottle of my favourite ‘Sinols Garnatxa’ previously introduced to me by Ramon’s father, at his Hotel restaurant, some years ago. The next purchase has to be ‘Oli de Pau’ (oil of peace) ‘Verge Extra’ (extra virgin) made from the local Argudell olives, and a jar of fig jam, well, we are staying in Figueres whose name translates as ‘fig trees’.

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Tapas to go with the tasting of local wines, with Ramon Duran, Honey Khor and the manager of EmpordĂ lia.

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céramiques

sant vicens Perpignan Sant Vicens is a 18th century farmhouse, in the old vaulted wine cave of Mas St Vicens, in the St Gaudrique quarter of Perpignan, France. During France’s occupation by Germany (1942), many ceramists left the notable Sèvres potteries, near Versailles and established in 1756, seeking to be free of the occupation. With thanks to the support of Aristide Maillol, Raoul Dufy, and Albert Bausil, the first kiln became operational on January 3, 1943 in the presence of Aristide Maillol.

Initially the pottery followed the Catalan tradition, with Louis Antico as the foreman. Later, Lucien Goron from the Sèvres factories began to teach those methods at Sant Vicens In 1950, Jean Lurçat (1892 – 1966), the great French artist, went to Sant Vicens, eventually followed by Salvador Dalí, Pablo Picasso, Charles Trénet and Yehudi Menhuin. Jean Lurcat (1892 - 1966) was a well known Ecole de Paris artist, and friend to Picasso. Firmin Bauby asked Lurçat to work for his St Vicens pottery, at Perpignan, which he did, twice a year until his death in 1966. Lurçat visited the pottery creating ceramics under the guidance of Gumersind Gomila (then head of the workshop) and his ‘turner’ Eugène Fabrégas.

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Eugène Fàbragas

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céramiques

sant vicens

Eugène Fàbragas with Pablo Picasso

A story of Eugène Fàbragas, ceramicist by Marie-Josée Fàbregas

Perpignan

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My father was Eugène Fàbragas. He was from Breda, a Catalan village known for its culinary and decorative ceramics.

Since the age of 14 my father worked in the family business, together with his 2 brothers. My father was the youngest.

He soon developed a very good technique for turning the ceramicist's wheel, in the manufacture of culinary pots and pans.

Around about the 1950s, Firmin Bauby, founder of Sant Vicens ceramics, in Perpignan, was in close collaboration with famous painters such as Pablo Picasso, Jean Lurçat (head of studio of St Vicens), Picart the Sweet and Gumersind Gomila.

Firmin Bauby decided to visit Breda. He urgently needed a turner able to make large-scale ceramics for all those painters who, in the years to come, would make Sant Vicens the haven it became. There Bauby he met my father, a young ceramist eager to learn new pottery techniques.

Thus began a prolific and long collaboration (lasting for more than 30 years). My father had the incredible opportunity to make his debut in France. As the youngest of his family, he moved from Catalonia to Perpignan, to be part of the great artistic moment happening in Sant Vicens.

First, he lived in a pension, in the city centre. Later, after he married my mother, Trinidad Figueres (a great woman from Cistella, a small village 12 kms far from Figueres, Catalonia), he moved to St Gaudérique district, and into a modest house belonging to the Bauby family.

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Eugène Fàbragas

Eugène Fàbragas with Pablo Picasso

Gradually, but with great tenacity, Eugène Fàbragas persevered in the thriving studio of Sant Vicens, encouraged all the time by Firmin Bauby.

Between 1954 and 1959 a collaboration was established between the great Spanish artist, Pablo Picasso and the studio of St Vicens. Due to this, my father had the incredible opportunity to create ceramics for Picasso and the many great artistic talents who were drawn to Sant Vicens. Pablo Picasso once told my father 'continue petit' (continue like this young man).

Little by little my father learned new pottery techniques.

He created a personal style of ceramics, of which I have many examples bearing witness his labour and love of ceramics.

My father died in Catalonia, in 2015, at the grand old age of 89. He had lived back there for the last 15 years of his life.

I was very touched to accompany Martin, Founding Editor of The Blue Lotus, and his Malaysian Chinese artist wife (Honey Khor) to the Firmin Bauby Foundation. Madam Claire Bauby, niece of Firmin Bauby, and her father Paul Bauby (Bauby's nephew), both ceramists currently managing the foundation, kindly received us and showed us into the workshop which is not open to the public. It was there that I was touched to discover a huge vase made by my father.

Marie-Josée Fàbregas

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Sant Vicens ceramic studios

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contemporary Sant Vicens ceramics

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Poetry at Hotel Duran F i g u e r e s

M a r t i n B r a d l e y Performing with Azucena Moya

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Dusun Publications The Blue Lotus Publications

Books by

Martin Bradley

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Books by Martin

Bradley 179

CAMBODIA CHINA ITALY

WITH MARTIN BRADLEY

MALAYSIA PHILIPPINES SPAIN 180