In this series, I chose to focus my attention on the coastal village of Portbou, the last stop on the train line leading from Spain (should I say Catalunya?) to France — the end of the world?
Barely one thousand people live in Portbou today, half as many as forty years ago, one fourth of the population in 1930.
Back then, the city drew its livelihood from the border railway terminal where people would have to idle as their train switched wheelsets between the French and Spanish gauges, and where freight went through customs processing. The border also gave the city a key role in sustaining the Republican opposition against the nationalist forces of Francisco Franco during the civil war ninety years ago.
Today, the once bustling town is now a quiet backwater. The rails have gone largely silent as the new high speed line bypasses Portbou altogether; customs officials have been rendered largely unnecessary by the advent of the common market. The city is mostly home to retirees and caters to the low-key tourist activity away from fancier resorts up and down the coast.
In portraying Portbou’s weathered surfaces, I am saluting the spirit of its people, who welcomed me during my days here and fight to keep the city alive with their Catalan banter in the streets and at the counter of the few year-round cafés. In their own way, the new resistants. Gràcies i enhorabona!
Passionate for photography for as many as four decades by now, I believe in the camera as a tool that helps us be present in the here and now, connected to the world and people around us and to our own feelings, a precious gift when virtual worlds try to distract us from our lives.
The camera points outwards but also inwards, revealing a bit of our inner selves, of the brain and heart that point our eyes towards our subjects. Of late, I realize that my work is more and more marked by the passing away of my architect father, who transmitted to me his attention to light, lines, surfaces and perspectives. A thankful homage to him, really.
