Africa in Portugal

Fresh from four exhilarating days at the Setúbal Music Festival - I have yet to write up the report of this year's spectacular for The Arts Desk, but here's one from 2014 - I wasn't expecting something quite as extraordinary as the centrepiece of another festival in the beautiful Alentejo town of Évora - African Passions. Curated by the incredibly impressive and widely travelled Alexandra de Cadaval, it makes superb use of the exhibition rooms in the family's palace.

It's especially appropriate since, although all 16 artists represented come from sub-Saharan Africa - and, as ever, beg the question, should we be lumping so many countries together under the aegis of 'African art'? - the Palácio dos Duques de Cadaval is built, like all else in Évora, on the 450-year period of Moorish rule established by Tariq ibn-Zayad in 715 (the Moors were driven out of Portugal much earlier than they were in Spain, so there are no great monuments to compare to the mosque in Cordoba or the Alhambra). Earlier still, the Romans were here, and the gem of Évora's UNESCO World Heritage status has to be the Temple of Diana (so called) on what is essentially the acropolis (the Cathedral is almost, but not quite, on the same level).

Some of our fellow guests in Setúbal had been at the festival opening in Évora, to the accompaniment of a dramatic thunderstorm of which we had no inkling on the coast (where the sun shone every day; inland, it remained mostly grey and the rest of Europe seemed to be drowning). We were sorry to be missing one of the many musical events by taking a flight back that evening; tanked up to trance state by litres of beer, men from Burkina Faso were to hold a full moon Bwaba ceremony at the cromlech outside town. But at least our experience followed a ritual route, starting by entry into the former convent church next to the palace, the Igreja dos Loios, via the Gothic doorway and the escutcheon of the Cadavals.

In front of the high altar, flanked by the floor-to-ceiling azulejo tiles showing scenes from the life of  São Lourenço Justiniano, founder of the Loios, Benin artist Romuauld Hazoumè's Osa La, made of fabric and trailing plastic containers, evokes Yoruba ritual parallel to the Catholic one represented in the church. 

83-year-old Esther Mahlangu of the Ndebele community in South Africa came to Évora to try out the ceremonial paintings handed down through generations on the gateway to the Palace - I love it that this modest contribution coexists with the Cadaval arms- 

as well as a new canvas seen on a wall of the courtyard up top (the heritage status meant it couldn't be done directly) and this old motorbike dug out by Alexandra.

It sits aptly in the centre of the first room, celebrating the artist we know best from his association with Sophie in Mali, photographer Malick Sidibé (born in the same year as Esther Mahlangu, 1935; he died in 2016). The bike, its provenance being explained by Alexandra above to Hugo O'Neill (more on him anon when I return to the subject of Setubal) and Lady Hamlyn is well in accord with the lovely scenes of urban life in the nightclubs and dance halls of Bamako. The Helen Hamlyn Trust is one of the sponsors of both Setúbal and Évora festivals.

Turn to the left and in the first of a long sequence of light-filled rooms, each of which is enriched by the perspective on the others, there are further exuberant, this time colour, images brimming with African vitality. JP Mika's La belle ambiance even reflects Sidibe's most adorable image, of the dancing couple, 

while Chéri Samba, like Mika from the DRC, gives space to the young and old.

Mika, quite a character by all accounts who to homage the Alentejo turned up in cork hat and suit, dances us into the next room

which offers another joyous perspective in Cote Ivoirien Frédéric Boulay Boubaré's 213 drawings imagining his mother travelling the world on crutches. She not only visits European countries; the EU flag also gets a look-in. Each drawing is subtly, and mostly humorously different. 

Rather whizzing on now through the rooms - and nothing I saw was unworthy of attention - here's the obsessive working in black and white - with just a bit of pink - by the DRC's Houston Maludi.

Malian Toussaint Dembelé's colour to monochrome is in the loads of cyclists. The painting I'd take away with me from the exhibition is on the right.

A third Malian, Amadou Sanogo, could be giving us another Ubu Roi series with A Votre Avis

while the portrait in the next room, mostly obliterated by the light in the distance above, is by Filipe Branquinho of Mozambique.

Mauro Pinto, from the same country with ties to Portugal, has photographed tribal ritual, which Alexandra is explaining to Helen.

Then the photography strain continues with the alienation of some African women as depicted by Phumzile Khanyile of Soweto

in striking contrast to Senegalese Omar Victor Diop's playful but magnificent series of self-portraits, usually with football,

of which this perhaps is my favourite

though the portrait of the woman with a fan depicted in the second picture from the top is justly the cover image for the exhibition. I can't recommend a visit too strongly - it runs until 25 August.

Our run of superb lunches continued at the four-table Tasquina d'Oliviera, drooling over items at which I'll spare you, after which J and I took a much-needed walk along the colonnades of the lower old town until we reached Évora's main square

of which you may see more, as well as other parts of Évora we didn't have time to see, in a video by my latest discovery, folk singer and heroine of the Alentejo Celina da Piedade. I love her smile and her brio - she's a consummate performer as well as perfect crowd-worker, as we witnessed on our first evening in Setúbal

All we had time left to see was the Cathedral - fortress-like without, begun in Romanesque style, mostly Gothic within, and unhappily restored.

Looks like too much may have been done to the statues of the Apostles either side of the west doorway, if indeed they're still originals,

but the detail is especially fine on St Peter.

The cloisters are rather splendid, 

especially since you can take one of two spiral stone staircases up on to the roof.

Gargoyles offset roundels with designs presumably influenced by the Moorish occupation.

In the south-east corner there's the tomb of the fundador, Bishop Pedro,

with a fine crucifixion frieze beneath his head and on one of the lions' backs.

The well laid out cathedral museum contains way too much samey stuff for my taste. Two things stood out: a small piece of 4th century fabric with praise to the Lord in Arabic, and this 12-inch-high Gothic ivory statue of Mary, opening out into a triptych with nine scenes of her life.

 
A French work of the 13th century, with a replica head from the 16th century, it must have been a gift to the town.

I wish we'd had more time for treasures in the main museum - less sorry about not seeing St Francis's chapel of bones, which  was not going to outstrip the crypt of All Saints Sedlec just outside Kutna Hora in Czechia - but Lisbon and the airport were calling. We'd hoped to see the cromlech on the way out, but our driver told us it was too far off the main road and so - whizzing back past the fabulous landscape of cork trees on undulating hills and little sign of habitation, later storks and their nests on pylons - we headed for home.

The soul of Setúbal

Setúbal's true soul no doubt rests with its extraordinarily resilient people, the history of its various trades and its unique position 40 kilometres south of Lisbon at the mouth of the broad River Sado, with miles of sandy beaches opposite and the verdant Arrábida mountain range, much of it within a national park, just to the west.

For the purposes of a first blog entry on a remarkable place with which I fell very quickly in love, though, let's deal with a quiet heart, an easy refuge in the middle of a city that never feels too busy, more of a town which may be suffering as badly as anyone from the truly dismal Portuguese recession, but in the brilliant sunshine of late May and from a callow tourist's perspective hardly felt like it. We were lucky to be there as guests of the annual Setúbal Music Festival - now covered in an Arts Desk special - led for four days by a thousand jubilant children and with a general feeling that culture really was bringing a better life to this port on the western edge of Europe.

This is the newly restored wall of the Convento de Jesus, its cloisters under wraps, the treasures of its gallery temporarily housed in a handsome bank building on the Avenue Luisa Todi which forms a garden promenade on the south side of the old town.

The stone of the porch and columns is the lovely reddish, mottled breccia from Arrábida, the green mountain we'll visit in a future entry. Here's the sort of landscape we're talking about, prior to a very cold dip.

My information on the convent's history is limited: one of Setúbal's charms is that it really isn't set up even for cultural tourism, so there were no guide books of any kind. They have, at least started to put brief history plaques outside the major edifices, and from this one I learnt that the building was founded in 1491 by Justa Rodrigues Pereira, King John II's nursemaid and court noblewoman. After John's death in 1495 Manuel I took over the support of the building and engaged Diogo de Boitaca - his first known commission, long before his celebrated work on the Jerónimos Monastery in the Lisbon parish of Belém - three years later. His are the most striking stone additions, making the Convent of Jesus the first gem of Manueline style.

The pillars' three plaited columns of this late Gothic architectural movement are as surprising as the very different ones in  Belém (which I dimly remember from our first, and less successful, visit through a film of sickness from eating poisoned eels. One positive result of that trip was that J got a cold and gave up smoking, a resolution he has maintained to this day. But I digress).

Up in the roof of the choir, the patterns of twisted rope are also typical of Manueline style

while in the nave the columns offset characteristic 17th century Portuguese blue and white tiles, the famous azulejos (there's a major factory nearby which ships extensively to South America).

The ones on the north side depict the life of Mary, including elephant and castle.

There's a large mullioned window with late Gothic tracery, handsome both within

and without.

Jesus Square, fringed on one side by friendly little cafes but hardly a hive of activity, was donated by Jorge de Lencestre, bastard son of King John II and Master of the Order of Santiago (thanks, Wiki). His commissioning work is also the cross, originally placed near the apse of the church but moved in the 19th century to the middle of the square.

A stroll around the back reveals a pretty Franciscan chapel

and an old, disused bath house, with the chimney of one of the many former tanneries in the town behind it.

What a unified masterpiece this chapel would be if the fourteen panels of its great altarpiece could be restored to their rightful place. In fact these vibrant Renaissance biblical scenes, the work of the great Lisboan Jorge Afonso and his workshop, had been hanging next door in the monastery gallery for years and during restoration are now down the road in the town's main exhibition space, to administrators of which I'm grateful for this shot (four of the panels are displayed to the side of the central group).

We met some very likeable, I would be impertinent enough to say loveable, local worthies on our festival visit.. Among them was Hugo Ricciardi O'Neill, a putative king of Ireland, guardian of a branch of the O'Neill dynasty of Clanaboy which has been in Portugal since the 18th century: as Portuguese-intellectual as they come and with the most charming, friendly and natural Spanish wife, Carmen. He loved our idea of getting high quality reproductions installed in the chapel if the originals simply can't hang there: this is a project for the future, maybe in collaboration with our own National Gallery's reproduction scheme.

The other churches of Setúbal's old town all have their charms. We weren't expecting the monumental gilt wood altarpiece of Santa Maria, serving as the city's cathedral. The 13th century building had a full makeover in the second half of the 16th.

The work of Master Jose de Rodrigues Ramalho, and dated 1697, the altarpiece makes a sobering contrast with the city's essential poverty: wasn't the divide between the clergy and the populace ever thus?

In addition there are Tuscan columns, some tilework and an 18th century painted ceiling.

We heard fine religious works by Victoria and - actually more interesting - several Renaissance Portuguese composers sung by a small vocal ensemble, the Grupo Vocal Olisipo, led by the most individual and impressive of sopranos, Elsa Cortez. But more of that over on the Arts Desk.

São Julião, down in the main Bocage Square,

 is covered with more azulejos depicting the extraordinary life of its saint, but is more remarkable for its position in the general ensemble

while São Sebastião, secluded up the hill, has two of the glorious jacaranda trees for which Setúbal is celebrated - and we were there at the right time for the fragrant purple blossom - in its courtyard.

Some interesting painted woodwork inside

and of course the pierced saint on the altar

but the church was more remarkable for its active youth centre in the cloisters, with a volleyball court on the roof. The saint again alongside Fatima above a doorway opposite is typical of Setúbal's ruined splendour: many of the prettiest houses are the most neglected.

More tiled but declining splendours in the old town. This one

has some typically meaningful graffiti on the wall round the corner ('all different, all equal').

The painted walls of Setúbal need to form the backbone of a future post. Maybe they take their cue from the personal tiling: presumably this disused villa has its owner depicted.

That adds to a certain sense of the picturesque, and also to the greedy northern European instinct for redevelopment. I did mention this to Sophie, who's just left us to return to her hotel in Djenne after a super day we spent together at Glyndebourne - there's contrast for her - and she jumped at the chance to make a boutique hotel there. But don't worry - Setúbal will never be a mass tourist destination, though it deserves much better than the cursory glance in my old Rough Guide ('most of its charm is long gone': nonsense, you just have to look, and not too hard in the old town proper).

Should end this first instalment at another big city temple - the amazing market building which was restored, though at the loss of several lives when its south wall collapsed.

The basic idea was worthwhile, though, because quite apart from the abundance of fruit and vegetables the azulejos form a distinguished background to one of the best fish markets I've ever seen. Swordfish aplenty

as well as the cuttlefish which yield the local speciality, chocos fritos

and tuna (I'm not sure I've ever seen a big 'un so cut before).

The Lisboans come here every Sunday for their seafood lunches, and for good reason. Hell, I'd even fly there for a couple of meals and a night. And we shall without a shadow of a doubt be back.