LEAVING L'EMPORDÀ, 'ÉS QUAN DORMO QUE HI VEIG CLAR'

Today, Claire Fontaine and The Grandma are on their way to Barcelona after spending a few days in El Port de la Selva where they are going to pay a final tribute to an old friend and visit another, Tina Picotes.

Yesterday, they took their bicycles and went up from El Port de la Selva to the Monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes, one of the most imposing and mysterious buildings from where on a clear day you can even see the Serra de l'Albera, Canigó and the Pyrenees.

On the way back, they went down through Vilajuïga and returned to El Port de la Selva along the Llançà road, a road that allows you to enjoy an extraordinarily beautiful landscape and, although you have to keep your attention on the road 100%, it allows you to stop at different places and contemplate how the sea and the mountain coexist.

 

NOTES SOBRE EL PORT DE LA SELVA per J.V. Foix

Em trobaren ajaçat a la sorra quan ja tots els banyistes havien desertat la platja. Enganxats a la nuca i a l'esquena tenia papers de totes les colors amb inscripcions de duanes i de grans hotels i balnearis exòtics. Me'ls volien arrencar, però seguien trossos de carn viva. Els ulls dels cavalls els pesquen a la cova de la Colomera quan toquen les dotze de la nit. Només en aquell instant precís es poden obrir com qui obre una ostra. Llur pupil·la flota damunt un licor tan ardent, que mai cap llavi humà no ha pogut acostar-s'hi. No els mireu mai de fit a fit, perquè us prendrà per sempre una tristesa sense fi, i la passió per les cales inabordables lligarà la vostra vida al més misteriós dels destins.

NOTES ON PORT DE LA SELVA by J.V. Foix

They found me lying in the sand when all the swimmers had already abandoned the beach. Stuck on my back and the nape of my neck were pieces of paper in all colours with inscriptions from customs houses and from grand hotels and exotic spas. They wanted to tear them from me, but chunks of live flesh came off as well. They go fishing for horses' eyes in Colomera's cave when it strikes midnight. Only at that precise instant can they be opened as one opens an oyster. Their pupils float on a liquid which burns so strongly, that no human lips have ever been able to come near. Don't ever stare at them, because an endless sadness will take hold of you for good, and the passion for inaccessible inlets will bind your life to the most mysterious of destinies.

 

They arrived on Friday with J.V. Foix and his poetry and they leave in the same way, remembering his writings about this beautiful town and what is, perhaps, his best-known poem, the one that tells us about dreams as a way to escape from reality, especially when it is harder and crueler than you can bear.

In this poem, J.V. Foix reminds us of the Occitan poets who also sang of love at night surrounded by the dreamlike atmosphere, and even reminds us of Corto Maltese, the character of Hugo Pratt, who also uses dreams as a way of refuge (or escape) in Les Cèltiques. Calderón de la Barca also told us that life was a dream and Bernat Metge took advantage of the resource of dreams to be able to criticize society and the political power of the time and avoid the established censorship, and dreams allow us to live as we want and desire, that's why our beloved Bruce Springsteen also invites us to daydream...

 

És quan plou que ballo sol
Vestit d'algues, or i escata,
Hi ha un pany de mar al revolt
I un tros de cel escarlata,
Un ocell fa un giravolt
I treu branques una mata,
El casalot del pirata
És un ample gira-sol.
Es quan plou que ballo sol
Vestit d'algues, or i escata.

És quan ric que em veig gepic
Al bassal de sota l'era,
Em vesteixo d'home antic
I empaito la masovera,
I entre pineda i garric
Planto la meva bandera;
Amb una agulla saquera
Mato el monstre que no dic.
És quan ric que em veig gepic
Al bassal de sota l'era.

És quan dormo que hi veig clar
Foll d'una dolça metzina,
Amb perles a cada mà
Visc al cor d'una petxina,
Só la font del comellar
I el jaç de la salvatgina,
-O la lluna que s'afina
En morir carena enllà.
Es quan dormo que hi veig clar
Foll d'una dolça metzina.

 

It's when it rains I dance alone
Dressed in seaweed, scales and gold,
There's a patch of sea at a bend in the road
And a piece of scarlet sky,
A bird loops the loop
And a shrub branches out,
And the pirate's manor-house
Is a broad sunflower.
It's when it rains I dance alone
Dressed in seaweed, scales and gold.

It's when I laugh I see my hunched back
In the pond below the threshing floor,
I dress up as a man from antiquity
And harass the farm-girl,
And between pine grove
And kermes oak I plant my standard;
With a sail needle
I slay the monster whose name I do not utter.
It's when I laugh I see my hunched back
In the pond below the threshing floor.

It's when I sleep I see all clearly,
Deranged by a sweet venom,
With pearls in either hand
I live in the heart of a scallop shell,
I am the spring in the gulley
And the bed
Of the wild creature,
—Or the moon who becomes more delicate
As she dies beyond the ridge—.
It's when I sleep I see all clearly,
Deranged by a sweet venom.

 

El Port de la Selva, April 1939

On he deixat les claus...

 

More information: Anglo-Catalan Society

 

I quan tot just si la tenora sona,
Pastors i estels perduts serrat enllà,
La Verge i Tu tots sols, a l'Hora Sola,
I els corns reials qui sap qui els sentirà,
Vindré mudat, al costat de la dona,
Amb els vestits de quan ens vam casar.

And then just as the woodwind tenora sounds, 
shepherds and stars lost beyond the hills, 
the Virgin and You all alone at the Single Hour, a
and who knows who will hear the royal horns, 
I shall come, having changed my clothes, beside my wife,
dressed as we were when we married.

J.V. Foix

El Port de la Selva, Christmas 1948

Onze Nadals i un Cap d'Any

MEETING UP WITH TINA PICOTES AT EL PORT DE LA SELVA

Today, Claire Fontaine and The Grandma have got up early to drive to El Port de la Selva where they will meet Tina Picotes this evening. 

They have taken their bicycles and their diving wetsuits to enjoy three days of relaxation in a beautiful town that at times like this does not have large crowds, where you can practice different sports in peace and where it seems that time stands still. 

On the other hand, Joseph de Ca'th Lon who had planned to return to Basel yesterday Thursday has decided to stay a few more days in Lyon enjoying the cultural and sports offer. 

El Port de la Selva and the Empordà hide unexpected treasures. A century ago, this fishing village on the Cap de Creus became an important meeting point for Catalan poets, writers, artists and intellectuals, often from Barcelona. An important part of the Catalan artistic creations of the last hundred years have been written, conceived and produced here, such as the famous poem Ho sap tothom, i és profecia, by the poet from Sarrià, J.V. Foix, whom The Grandma knows well and whose work she greatly appreciates. 

Ho sap tothom, i és profecia.
La meva mare ho va dir un dia
Quan m’acotxava amb blats lleugers;
Enllà del somni ho repetia
L’aigua dels astres mitjancers
I els vidres balbs d'una establia
Tot d'arrels, al fosc d’un prat:
A cal fuster hi ha novetat.

Els nois que ronden per les cales
Hi cullen plomes per les ales
I algues de sol, i amb veu d'albat,
Criden per l'ull de les escales
Que a cal fuster hi ha novetat.
Els qui ballaven per les sales
Surten i guaiten, des del moll,
Un estel nou que passa el coll.

El coraller ho sap pel pirata
Que amaga els tints en bucs d'escata
Quan crema l'arbre dels escrits;
Al capità d'una fragata
Li ho diu la rosa de les nits.
L'or i l'escuma d'una mata
Clamen, somnàmbuls, pel serrat:
A cal fuster hi ha novetat.

El plor dels rics salpa pels aires,
I les rialles dels captaires
Solquen els glaços del teulat.
Un pastor ho conta als vinyataires:
A cal fuster hi ha novetat.
El roc dels cims escampa flaires,
I al Port mateix, amb roig roent,
Pinten, pallards, l’Ajuntament.

El jutge crema paperassa
Dels anys revolts, a un cap de plaça,
I el mestre d'aixa riu tot sol.
El fum dels recs ja no escridassa
I els pescadors faran un bol.
Tot és silenci al ras de raça
Quan els ho diu l'autoritat:
A cal fuster hi ha novetat.

Els de la Vall i els de Colera
Salten contents, a llur manera,
I els de la Selva s'han mudat;
Amb flors de fenc calquen a l’era:
A cal fuster hi ha novetat.
De Pau i Palau-saverdera
Porten les mels de llur cinglera
I omplen els dolls de vi moscat.

Els de Banyuls i els de Portvendres
Entren amb llanes de mars tendres
I un raig de mots de bon copsar
Pels qui, entre vents, saben comprendre's.
Els traginers de Perpinyà,
Amb sang barrada en drap de cendres,
Clamen dels dalts del pic nevat:
A cal fuster hi ha novetat.

Res no s'acaba i tot comença.
Vénen mecànics de remença
Amb olis nous de llibertat;
Una Veu canta en recompensa:
Que a cal fuster hi ha novetat.
Des d’Alacant a la Provença
Qui mor no mor, si el son és clar
Quan neix la Llum en el quintar.

La gent s'agleva en la nit dura,
Tots anuncien la ventura,
Les Illes porten el saïm,
I els de l'Urgell, farina pura:
Qui res no té, clarors del cim.
La fe que bull no té captura
I no es fa el Pa sense el Llevat:
A cal fuster hi ha novetat.

Everyone knows, it's a prophecy.
My mother said it one day
as she laid me down with gentle wheat;
beyond dreams it was repeated
by the water of intermediary stars
and the raw panes of a stable
covered in roots, in the darkness of a meadow:
at the carpenter's house there's a new arrival.
 
The kids who roam around the coves
gather feathers for wings
and seaweed of the sun, and with an innocent's voice
proclaim through the holes in their ladders
—at the carpenter's there's a new arrival.
Those who were dancing in the halls
come out and gaze, from the quay,
upon a new star passing over the hill.
 
The coral fisher has been told by the pirate
who hides his dyes in scaly chasms
when the tree of letters burns;
the captain of a frigate is told
by the rose of nights.
The gold and foam of a shrub
announce, somnambulant, through the hills:
at the carpenter's there's a new arrivaL.

The lament of the rich sets sail through the air,
and the laughter of beggars
furrows the ice on the roof.
A shepherd tells the vine growers:
at the carpenter's there's a new arrival.
The summits' rocks scatter scents,
and in the centre of Port de la
Selva, in the brightest red,
strapping lads paint the Town Hall.

The judge burns dossiers
from the insurgent years at one end of the square,
and the adze master laughs alone.
The smoke of the ditches shrieks no more
and the fishermen will cast their nets.
All is silence on the people's level
when they are told by the authority:
at the carpenter's there's a new arrival.

Those from La Vail and those from Colera
leap happily, in their own way,
the people of La Selva have changed;
with hayflower they trace out on the threshing floor:
at the carpenter's there's a new arrival.
From Pau and and Palau-saverdera
they bring the honeys from their cliffs
and fill the springs with muscat wine.
 
Those from Banyuls and those from Portvendres
enter wearing woollen wraps
from gentle seas and a string of words, well received
by those who, amid winds, can understand one another.
The hauliers from Perpinyà,
with blood striped on a sheet of cinders,
exclaim from the heights of the snow-covered peak:
at the carpenter's there's a new arrival.

Nothing ends and all begins.
Mechanics, bondsmen, come along
with new oils of freedom;
a Voice sings in return:
at the carpenter's there's a new arrival.
From Alacant to Provence
Whosoever dies does not die, if sleep is clear
when the light is born in the ploughland.
 
Folk gather together in the hard night,
all announce the good fortune,
the Islands bring lard
and those from Urgell pure flour:
those who have nothing, brightness of the peaks.
The faith that boils cannot be captured
and Bread is not made without Yeast:
at the carpenter's there's a new arrival.

 

 El Port de la Selva, Christmas 1953 

Onze Nadals i un Cap d'Any

 

More information: El Port de la Selva

Me exalta el nou i m'en airona el vell.

The new exalts me and the old flatters me.

 

J. V. Foix

J.V.FOIX: THE AVANT-GARDE IN EL PORT DE LA SELVA

J.V.Foix in his home in El Port de la Selva

Today, The Grandma is in El Port de la Selva, a small town in l'Alt Empordà, where the poet Josep Vicenç Foix found inspiration for the most part of his poems. 

The town has a special route dedicated to J.V.Foix where you can follow his life and understand his poetry.

Josep Vicenç Foix i Mas (28 January 1893-29 January 1987) was a Catalan poet, writer, and essayist in Catalan. Born in Sarrià, Barcelona, Foix was a son of one of the best-known bakers in the whole city. He started his studies of Law, but left them after the second course at university. 

More information: Fundació J.V.Foix

From then, he worked in the familiar business as well as he read classic masterpieces of literature by authors such as Lord Byron, Dante Alighieri or Charles Baudelaire. Indeed, Foix never forbade the place where he had been born, not even when the Spanish Civil War ended. 

Some old memories in El Port de la Selva

Nonetheless, Foix always had been a liberal writer who introduced some avantgarde ideology in Catalonia.  

He usually signed his work by using the abbreviation J.V. Foix.

In 1916 began to collaborate with La Revista and started to be interested in avantgarde art. He worked among other publications like Trossos, La Cònsola (1919–1920) or La Publicitat (1923–1936), where he worked as an art director.

At the end of the Spanish Civil War, Foix returned to the familiar business, and let forgotten for some time his artistic purpose. 

More information: Mapa Literari J.V.Foix-El Port de la Selva

The Grandma in El Port de la Selva nowadays

He also compiled his total poetic work, and continued helping young artist related to avantgarde, between which Joan Brossa must be named.

On 25 May 1962, he became a member of Institut d'Estudis Catalans. 

He received many different awards during his life: la Medalla d'Or de la Generalitat de Catalunya in 1981 or el Premi d'Honor de les Lletres Catalanes in 1984 are some of them. 

In 1984, the Parliament of Catalonia proposed him for the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Download Readings of J.V.Foix

J. V. Foix helped in 1985 to found again the students association Federació Nacional d'Estudiants de Catalunya (FNEC). He was named President de Honour of it. He died in 1987, and buried in Sarrià.

    Alone, I am eternal. A thousand-year old terrain
    entices me, what was strange is no longer strange,
    I was born to this place; desert without oasis.

J.V.Foix