Lotus The Blue Issue 11 2018

Arts Magazine

Christmas in Catalonia

in this issue

Figueres Christmas Market

Girona
Port Lligat
Carles Bros
Christmas at Hotel Duran
Jacques Dupuy
Céramiques Sant Vicens
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Lotus The Blue

Arts Magazine

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

2
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

3
inside....

6 Editorial
Thoughts on the current issue
by the Founding Editor

8 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

4

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

5
 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/

6
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

7
 Chris
in Cata

Cadaqués
8
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 mid-
winter'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.

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).
Escudella i Carn d’Olla
11
 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...

12
13
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.
15
16
 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.

17
 Tortell de reis

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
19
 Figueres Chri

A stark treed La Rambla with Winter Market

20
istmas Market

21
 Catalan s

Goat's milk cheeses

22
sausages

Hams

23
Catalan biscuits galore

24
25
Chocolate Churros

26
Regional beer

Wild honey

27
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.

28
El Racó del Viatger menu cover

29
 Couscous Royal

30 Bistec
Pinxos Moronos

31
 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

32
Llibre de Coch

33
Paella mariner
Paella, fisherman's style with langoustine

34
ra amb llagosta

35
36
37
 Daliesque lights

38
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

39
 Fresh Foo
Figu

Ox Heart Tomato
40
od Market
ueres

RegularTomato
41
Saffron Milk Cap Mushroom

Like many Catalan

markets. Figueres
market brings the
freshest seasonal
fruit and vegetables
into the heart of the
city.
Pears
42
 Marketing becomes
a mouth watering
exercise, choosing
from the best of the
best mushrooms,
peppers and even
ripe juicy pears.
Peppers
43
 Only
the
freshest

Olives Artichokes

Cheeses

Salted Cod

44
 Fresh Eggs

Trompetes

Broccoli

45
Passeig de Grà
day five, or so
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 hand-
painted 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
Louis Vuitton includes Gauguin, Manet,
‘Masters’ series Turner, Monet, and Boucher
on bags such as their Speedy, Keepall and Neverfull with the names of
those master artists prominent across them.
46
àcia

LUPO Designed handbags inspired by Gaudí

47
 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 El Caganer

48
 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.

49
poma
for Chr

The sights and the scents

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ander
ristmas

s are simply intoxicating

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Barcelona
Fira de Nadal de la Sagrada F
(Christmas Fair)

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Família

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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.

61
 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
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
Steps, endless steps assistant’s father too, is from Morocco, I discover.
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Elfin talismans straight from Rivendell or Lórien

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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/
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Owner of Egalia Artesanía 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
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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... Dalí

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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 Cadaqués, 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 Empordà.

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 Christmas 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 Señor Duran's
finest on this day of
merriment and wassailing

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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 glacé
Saddle of hare with red fruits sauce, marron glacé

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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 tiramisú
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
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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

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Carrer de Peralada, Figueres

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 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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Ensaïmada 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.
141
 an eveni
Jacques

Señor Dupuy's spaciously comfortable basement art gallery

142
ing with
s Dupuy

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

145
146
 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 Empordàlia.

158
159
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.

160
161
 Eugène Fàbragas

162
 céramiques
sant
vicens

Eugène Fàbragas with Pablo Picasso

A story of Eugène Fàbragas, ceramicist

by
Marie-Josée Fàbregas

Perpignan 163
 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. Eugène Fàbragas

164
 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

165
Sant Vicens ceramic studios

166
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contemporary
Sant Vicens ceramics

172
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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

kamma
176
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 Dusun Publications
The Blue Lotus Publications

Books by
Martin Bradley

178
Books by Martin Bradley

179
 CAMBODIA
CHINA
ITALY

WITH
MARTIN BRADLEY

MALAYSIA

PHILIPPINES

SPAIN
180