Ornament as Design: Azulejos Tiles as Hybrid Language
- Caroline DeFrias
- 6 days ago
- 20 min read
Blue and white, occasionally with touches of yellow, ceramic tiles adorn not simply the façades and interiors of countless Portuguese buildings, but also the design imaginary of the nation. Spanning abstract and geometric patterns to illustrative figurations in engrossing detail, azulejos tiles are a firm fixture of Portuguese design. Their distinctive palette misleads many into locating the etymology of azulejos in azul, the Portuguese word for blue, which tidily frames the ceramic tiles within their popular discourse as an aesthetic of Portuguese monumentality—an ornament of national identity and strength. However, the term finds its origins in al-zulayj, the Arabic term for a small, smooth polished stone, which twofold troubles categorizations of the ceramic tiles—both highlighting their complex function as an architectural material and illuminating a complex and often forgotten period of Portuguese history and identity. Since the 8th century, when al-Andalus Muslims sailed from North Africa, occupying the Iberian Peninsula and in so doing introducing their ceramic compositions, azulejos have stood Janus-faced at the complex intersection of utility and ornament. They have solidified as a distinct aesthetic of Portuguese national identity while simultaneously gesturing at the assemblages of influences which constitute the nation.
It was precisely this reflective quality, this hybrid language of azulejos, that stood as a threat to the Second Portuguese Republic. Under controversial dictator António de Oliveira Salazar, the Estado Novo (New State) fascist regime sought to create a so-called modern image and so saw the brief disappearance of the ceramic tiles from Portuguese design. The resulting architectural style of Português Suave (Soft Portuguese) articulated in concrete a national identity without memory. This period of absence, and the re-emergence of azulejos following the Revolução dos Cravos (Carnation Revolution), brings into stark relief the politics that underscore the unique design qualities of the ceramic tiles. Indeed, the Portuguese struggle against the Estavo Nuovo fascist regime is a struggle of memory against forgetting, of azulejos against concrete.
Hybrid Materiality
Azulejos fall somewhere between decorative art and architectural material. This hybrid position of ornament and design is reflective of the more complex politics which underscores the ceramic tiles. Azulejos are an ornamental art form with a specific functional capacity: their composition of porous clay covered by a protective glaze reflects light and insulates against humidity and corrosion from salty air, making them an ideal design material for Portugal’s Mediterranean climate.[1] Scholars are unanimous in their praise for the sleek efficiency of the material, accrediting its function as the source of its widespread and ubiquitous presence in the Portuguese design imaginary. João Miguel dos Santos Simões, one of the first and only scholars on azulejos and the founder of the Museu Nacional do Azulejo (National Azulejos Museum), describes how the ceramic tiles transcend their utilitarian function as a protective parietal finishing, taking on a monumental spirit as a ubiquitous part of Portuguese culture.[2] Indeed, the ceramics can be found in all realms of Portuguese life: lining the walls of secular sites like train stations, restaurants, bars, fountains, and murals with triumphant historical scenes; composing the political sphere in the contours of monuments and parliamentary buildings; enclosing the domestic sphere in geometric and floral motifs which adorn the façades of homes; and articulating sacred space, composing altars and icons for Catholic worship. Yet these expressions of Portuguese monumentality are not a Portuguese invention, but rather a vestige of the al-Andalus Muslim occupation. In this way, the azulejos are always gesturing as much away as towards Portuguese national identity—serving as a testament to the past as it builds the future. The concept of hybridity illuminates the genesis of the aesthetic and conceptual layers of the ceramic tiles, illuminating the complex relationship of medium and message. The azulejos represents not only the fusion of ornament and design, but also embodies the memories of strength and weakness in Portuguese history.
The history of the azulejos illuminates not simply their hybrid and complex language, it also exists as a politically urgent practice of memory. Azulejos are vestiges of the al-Andalus Muslim occupation of the Iberian Peninsula, which lasted over five hundred years, from the 8th to the 13th century (711-1492 CE). Currently, there is a lack of English-language scholarship discussing this period of Portugal’s design history, especially concerning the al-Andalus occupation of the Iberian Peninsula and its influence, and particularly regarding azulejos ceramic tiles. Also notable is that most English-language Portuguese scholarship avoids the mention of the al-Andalus within discussions of azulejos. It is therefore necessary for scholarship to explore this forgotten history and unpack the politics of memory. While the precise genealogical evolution of the azulejos is underexamined, and is not the subject of this paper, through the assemblage of visual analysis with the historical records which do exist, it is possible, and indeed urgent, to locate the azulejos within its al-Andalus Muslim origins.
Materiality of History
Azulejos are a composite material. They are composed of a porous clay-based ceramic body, the terracotta, covered by a protective glassy phase, the glaze, which operate together to form a larger pattern or image. The term azulejos describes their function as smooth polished stones operating within a mosaic composition, many of which have the interlocking curvilinear, geometric, and floral motifs characteristic of Islamic art and design.[3] It is possible to surmise that Portuguese azulejos find their lineage in zellij (الزليج), a form of Islamic mosaic tilework characteristic of Islamic architecture from the end of the first millennium. Zellij are a mosaic composition where an ‘architectural surface is entirely covered by a pattern arrangement of small pieces of tile which have surface glazes of different colours’.[4] A precise historical visual analysis of al-Andalus zellij tile against the azulejos is not possible, as al-Andalus architecture and art were either completely destroyed or whitewashed and appropriated after the Reconquista, the period of military campaigns waged by Western European Christian kingdoms in order to retake the Iberian territories. In fact, scholars note that nothing remains from the al-Andalus period of occupation or the first Portuguese kings.[5] However, a comparison of traditional Portuguese azulejos with traditional Islamic zellij can illuminate their shared genealogy.
Some of the earliest azulejos can be found in the Palácio Nacional de Sintra (The Palace of Sintra), a site which is not only replete with ceramic tiles but also the nationalistic gestures which obscure their history. The Palácio Nacional de Sintra was originally the residence of the al-Andalus Taifa of Lisbon, set up as the palace of the Islamic kingdom of the Iberian Peninsula. The interior walls of the palace are still adorned with ceramic tiles, but critically they are not the original zellij tiles from the 10th century, rather being azulejos from the 15th century. Most scholarship on azulejos locates their origins during this period, citing this palace as one of the first instances of the ceramic design and attributing their introduction to King Manuel I of Portugal (r. 1495-1521 CE). The azulejos stand as an import of luxury within this national narrative—a whim of a monarch’s visit to Seville, Spain and the Alhambra palace in Granada as an exercise in national taste. Indeed, the palace is celebrated as a testimony to the Portuguese reconquest and early affirmation of nationality. However, a comparison of decoration choices accredited to King Manuel I with traditional architectural Islamic tile design hardly illuminates the beginnings of a national tradition and aesthetic of strength, rather gesturing towards the unshakable influence of 500 years of occupation.
One of the earliest examples of Islamic tile decoration is the Qubbat al-Sakhra (قبة الصخرة or ‘The Dome of the Rock’). The edifice sits atop the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. It is a holy site for Muslims, enclosing the Foundation Stone that lies at the heart of the structure, which is believed to be the location of the miraji (ascension) of the Prophet Muhammad. The Qubbat al-Sakhra historically functioned and continues to serve as a shrine and important site of pilgrimage since its construction in 692 CE.[6] It is therefore reasonable to surmise this site would have held great importance and influence for the al-Andalus Muslims, making it a suitable site for comparison through which to examine the Islamic influence of the Palácio Nacional de Sintra.
The Qubbat al-Sakhra encloses the Foundation Stone in two ambulatories and an exterior wall. The exterior wall has an octangular structure with a raised circular platform that is capped with a golden dome. There are four entrances, each aligned with a cardinal direction. Marble clads the lower register of the exterior of Qubbat al-Sakhra, while faience, or tin glazed ceramics tiles, form a zellij composition on its upper registers. The glazed tiles, which dazzle in hues of blue with accents of green and yellow, are composed of precise shards of ceramic placed together to form abstract geometric and floral patterns, as well as calligraphy. This aniconic imagery is characteristic of Islamic design, which avoids direct reflections of sentient beings in art which decorates religious and holy sites.[7] The placement of the tiles on the upper registers of the exterior structure function to draw the eyes towards heaven, urging an ascent of vision and thought which echoes the journey of the Prophet Muhammad. Each tile seems to gesture in kind with one another towards the creator of such sites of beauty, speaking in glistening rays a reflection of gratitude and wonder.
The interior of Qubbat al-Sakhra is similarly ethereal, as the light from the windows which line the octagonal wall illuminate the ceramics which grace the interior of the dome. Golden zellij compositions shimmer atop supporting columns with corinthian capitals. Swirling vegetative motifs compose two rows above the columns and seem to swirl upwards towards the glistening golden and bejewelled dome interior, itself comprised of a geometric rhythm of gilded teardrops contoured in a deep red, which seem to fall from the eyes past the body and towards the rock which the Qubbat al-Sakhra houses. The ceramic tiles crowd together like the pilgrims who come to admire the site they adorn. Ibn Battua, a 14th-century travel writer, described the Qubbat al-Sakhra as ‘a building of extraordinary beauty, solidity, elegance, and singularity of shape […] Both outside and inside, the decoration is so magnificent and the workmanship so surpassing as to defy description’.[8] Here, the zellij composition works in harmony with the architecture of the building to accentuate the excellence of either, and articulate a beautiful testament to the Islamic faith.
The Palácio Nacional de Sintra has perhaps less lofty goals despite its similar use of ceramic tiles. Here, despite their kindred function, the azulejos gesture not towards the divine, but rather towards the Portuguese body politic as articulated by King Manuel I, and reflectively towards the Islamic kingdom who occupied the territory and its people for half a millennium. Originally constructed by the al-Andalus, following the Reconquista and subsequent forceful expulsion of Muslims from Portugal, the Palácio Nacional de Sintra was quickly vandalised, its walls whitewashed by King João I (r. 1385-1433). The history of the palace during the reigns of successive kings is unknown until the reign of King Manuel I, who refurbished the Palácio Nacional de Sintra in the early sixteenth century with ceramic tiles. Importantly, these azulejos would adorn the very walls whitewashed of their previous al-Andalus zellij compositions—a gesture widely considered to be the origins of the azulejos tradition must thus be seen as a move to obscure their history. Most scholars cite the waiting room to the palace meeting chambers (known today as Sala dos Árabes, or in English, the Arab Room) as an iconic origin of the Portuguese tradition of azulejos, making it an important site of consideration of the hybrid gesture inherent in them.
The Sala dos Árabes is a primary site of reception for the Palácio Nacional de Sintra, and the nation whose monarchs it houses. As a waiting room for the palace’s meeting chambers, the Sala dos Árabes offers itself as a vital impression to visiting guests as well as a reminder to ruling monarchs, seeking to communicate the national identity of the Kingdom of Portugal through its design. Similarly to the Qubbat al-Sakhra, Sala dos Árabes has multiple entrances, showcasing the splendour of the interior to multiple wings of the palace. Different from the Qubbat al-Sakhra is the availability or accessibility of the space, as the palace was reserved for visiting monarchs and other dignitaries; its design articulates a projection of national identity among a selected audience. As a site of reception, one was invited into the space by Portuguese monarchs in a political gesture echoed on the walls. The Sala dos Árabes has a low ceiling, accentuated by its wooden material which works together with the white walls to further visually narrow the space. At the centre of the room is a marble fountain, which rises from an abstracted star based into a bronze sculpture of cherubs holding an acorn, a symbol of growth and expansion. This sculpture emerges from a blue tile segment on the floor which is echoed on the room’s walls. Interestingly, in opposition to Qubbat al-Sakhra, it is the lower register of the Sala dos Árabes which is adorned in ceramic tiles while the upper register remains empty.
Blue, green, and white, with accents of yellow, glazed ceramic tiles adorn the Sala dos Árabes in undulating geometric patterns. The principal pattern has an interplay of quadrilateral shards which create a three-dimensional effect of cubes, which together seem to form the waves of an abstract ocean. This motion, however, has little place to go as the tiles are reserved to the lower half of the room and trapped by the wooden ceiling. Through their shared use of blue ceramic tiles, the azulejos seem to gesture towards the foundation, highlighting the water as a site of reflection instead of the sculpture as a site of projection into the future. Atop the wall azulejos are accent ceramic tiles which secure the building in an arrangement evoking the top of a fence, protecting or perhaps entrapping the occupants of the Sala dos Árabes. These ceramic tiles are cut and arranged into fleur-de-lys, which were often used to mark the north direction on a compass rose by Portuguese cartographers.[9] This reference to exploration seeks to celebrate Portugal’s growing colonial empire during the Age of Discovery, where the azulejos function as a medium of this national identity as a thalassocratic empire. Importantly, the resulting trading empire from Portugal’s imperial maritime network funded the voyage which inspired King Manuel I as well as his import of the ceramic tiles, yet this projection of power is undercut by the medium of their articulation. The projection of strength King Manuel I intended for the ceramic tiles is simultaneously a humble gesture, attesting also to voyages of the al-Andalus in their occupation of the Iberian Peninsula—a history hidden just beneath the surface of the azulejos of Palácio Nacional de Sintra.
Many scholars fondly note the journey of King Manuel I to Seville and Granada, Spain, admiring his excellent taste and financial prowess as the introduction of the azulejos tile tradition to Portugal. The resulting history of the azulejos is significantly better documented, and in virtually all scholarship the 15th century is regarded as the origin of the ceramic tile tradition. As this history is more easily accessible, it will be quickly summarised. In the 16th century, expedited by the Spanish Expulsión de los moriscos (Expulsion of the Moriscos), the decree of King Philip the III which forced all remaining Muslims in Spain to either convert or leave the country, Portugal took off in earnest as not only a consumer, but a producer of azulejos. As Christian Portuguese tradesfolk began creating the ceramic tiles, the subjects of azulejos increasingly tended towards naturalistic artistic creations, becoming a visual language of Portuguese national identity, depicting its history, influences, and exploits for the next five centuries. This is the monumentality Simões speaks of—the ubiquitous presence as a uniquely Portuguese quality—which dismisses the politics and history of the medium itself.
Materiality of Erasure
As important as it is to uncover the past of the azulejos, it is equally valuable to examine their erasure. Chiefly, the whitewashed walls upon which King Manuel I introduced what many scholars refer to as the first use of ceramic tiles in Portugal function astutely as a metaphor for the history of the ceramic tiles they obscure. Indeed, the practice of whitewashing, a principle means of the erasure and destruction of the visual legacy of the al-Andalus occupation of Portugal, emerges—through a consideration of the work of the Swiss modernist architect Le Corbusier—not simply as the forgetting of past subjugation but an exercise in the purification of a national identity.
Le Corbusier first discusses the need for a ‘loi du blanchiment’ (law of whitening) as a cleansing moral act which expunges decorative art in favour of a ‘purity’ of body, sight, and mind, during a 1923 interview early in his career.[10] For Le Corbusier, whiteness is both the effect and means of cleanliness, against a surface making disease and impurity visible. This measure of control was characteristic of his career in international design, characterised by the recurring gesture of an eradication of difference and a particular disdain for ornamentation. Art historian Mark Wigley argues that Le Corbusier’s whitewash ‘exposes every dimension of life in front of it to judgement’.[11] Yet another necessary dimension of gesture is concealment; it is necessary to consider that which is behind the whitewash. The projection of cleanliness requires not simply a clean exterior, but the erasure of the material which previously stood where the whitewash now resides. Le Corbusier’s logic of purity emerges as a rejection of tradition, articulating a hyper-presence which requires not simply that one constantly attend to the present moment so as to maintain the aesthetic of cleanliness but also that one obliterates any indication of a past.
The whitewashing of the Palácio Nacional de Sintra, and doubtlessly countless other sites yet unexplored, stands as an attempted cleansing of the Portuguese body politic. Following the logic of Le Corbusier, the whitewash stands as an attempted purification of national identity through the obfuscation of the al-Andalus tiles. Yet this venture is incomplete, as the resurgence of azulejos, despite any nationalistic intentions to project strength and obscure origins, still gestures towards their Muslim origins and therefore the diversity of influence and experience which constitutes Portugal’s national identity. Unfortunately, however, the calls of modernists like Le Corbusier would be answered in earnest, the call for a sleek international style and its implications of national purity zealously executed within Portugal’s own modern period, as administered by the Estado Novo regime. This period oversaw the disappearance of azulejos from Portuguese architectural design, cited by the regime as a movement towards simplicity and efficiency and against ornamentation. However, it is precisely the hybrid language of the azulejos—the paradoxical message of national strength articulated in the medium of historical vulnerability—which made their continued use during the Estado Novo period an impossibility.
Estado Novo (New State) was one of the longest surviving authoritarian regimes in Europe. It began with the military coup d’état of 28 May 1926, then declared the Revolução Nacional (National Revolution), now known simply as the 28 May Revolution, which ended the unstable República Portuguesa (Portuguese Republic). Also known as the First Republic, República Portuguesa was the complex 16-year period which followed the end of the Portuguese monarchy. The First Republic attempted and ‘fail[ed] to democratise and modernise the country’,[12] instead fostering growing unrest and distrust formed between the ideals República Portuguesa espoused and their failed political materializations, caused in part by and coupled with the economic instability resulting from the First World War. Historian José Miguel Sardica describes how ‘within a few years [of the turmoil of República Portuguesa], large parts of the key economic forces, intellectuals, opinion-makers and middle classes changed from left to right, trading the unfulfilled utopia of a developing and civic republicanism for notions of “order”, “stability” and “security”’,[13] which paved the way for the coming authoritarian regime. The 28 May Revolution established the Ditadura Nacional (National Dictatorship), which predicated itself on a ‘deep scepticism regarding the effectiveness of parliamentary democracy’,[14] later crystallised in the 1933 constitutional referendum which institutionalised the Estado Novo one party state led principally by António de Oliveira Salazar.[15] The so-called ‘New State’ was an authoritarian regime concerned with enforcing the nova ordem (new order) of a modernised Portuguese nation.[16]
From the moment Salazar seized power, he committed himself to the construction and promotion of ‘new public buildings as achievements that were in stark contrast with the inertia of the previous parliamentary regime’.[17] The resulting architectural style originally promoted as Estilo Português (Portuguese style), now known as Português Suave (Soft Portuguese), sought to articulate a ‘future-orientated modernity’[18] for the Christian fascist state, which included the discontinuation of the azulejos as a design material in all realms of Portuguese design and life. Português Suave sought paradoxically to articulate a ‘more international language and a national style’,[19] achieved through the displacement of traditional techniques, materials, and styles in favour of a somewhat anonymous, austere, and efficient modernist style. Ponorama: Revista Portuguesa de Arte e Turismo (Portuguese Magazine of Arts and Tourism), a publication overseen by the Estado Novo regime, described in a 1941 article entitled ‘Campanha do bom gôsto’ (‘Campaign for good taste’) the kind of modern design identity the Estado Novo promoted:
Good taste is imposed even in technical areas. […] Experience teaches scientists, engineers, architects, builders, that the artistically and scientifically correct solutions are always the simplest, the most elegant, the most attractive
[O bom gosto impõe-se mesmo nas áreas técnicas. […] A experiência ensina aos cientistas, engenheiros, arquitetos, construtores, que as soluções artística e cientificamente corretas são sempre as mais simples, as mais elegantes, as mais atraentes.][20]
Modernist Portuguese architects responded to this imperative, designing sleek buildings which adhered to the principles of simplicity of form and material. These calls can be understood in relation to the modernist architectural movement more broadly, as architects and designers who worked for Salazar’s regime were encouraged to attend international fairs, subscribe to foreign journals of design, and maintain acquaintances and professional relationships with foreign designers.[21] The resulting fierce rejection of the past must be understood not simply within a Portuguese context, but alongside an analysis of International Design and the implications of its implementation.
The Salazarian regime was preoccupied, like other European fascist regimes, with newness. During a 1940 commemoration of the Estado Novo he stated:
We are not just because we were, we do not live just because we have lived, we live to carry out our mission and claim to the world the right to do it.
[Não somos só porque fomos, nem vivemos só por termos vividos; viver para bem cumprir a nossa missão e perante o mundo afirmamos o direito de cumprir-la].[22]
This sentiment resonates with Le Corbusier’s Towards a New Architecture, which itself is an appeal to ‘disdain the work of so many schools, so many masters, so many pupils, and to think thus of them: “they are as disagreeable as mosquitoes”’.[23] The modernist identity emerges for both as a rejection of the past, which resulted in a nova ordem (new order) or l’esprit nouveau (new spirit) of a hyper-present orientation. For Português Suave, this impulse lived not only in the architecture but the design materials; principally, in the exclusion of the azulejos.
The fall from grace the azulejos experienced during Português Suave is typically associated with the material’s ornamentation, framed within modernist discussions of efficiency of material. Concrete instead became a favoured material,[24] constructing buildings which stood in austere, lacklustre silence compared with the ceramic tiled buildings which preceded them. The Praça do Areeiro (Areeiro Square), constructed in the midst of the Estado Novo regime from 1938-1949 by architect Luís Christino da Silva, stands as a testament to this forgetting—its edifice seeming to yearn for memory, for azulejos. Typical of Português Suave, the buildings of Praça do Areeiro utilise reinforced concrete as their primary medium, and highlight its smooth form in large, looming, plain walls. A marble base of archades evoke a robust sense of uniformity and strength, accentuated by a slight horizontal stripe which emphasises the scale of the buildings. The upper register of the buildings has uniform rows of square windows against a plain concrete facade, which upon close analysis reveals itself to be made of evenly placed rectangular concrete panels. This style is both a representation and trace of the lost contours of traditional Portuguese architecture which maintains similar structure but crucially maintains a stripped down, simple aesthetic. During the 1940s, Salazar sought to restore much of the capital’s architecture through ‘sharpening’ or ‘correcting’ their facades as a testament to his commitment to restore the values of Portugal’s past and future.[25] Importantly, this restoration of Portuguese identity omitted its most perhaps monumental medium: the azulejos replaced by concrete panels.
The Português Suave decision to retire the azulejos functions as a complex political gesture to not simply modernise Portuguese design but also purify Portuguese identity. The azulejos function as a design structure which builds other structures, a story with which other stories are told; they are a complex hybrid language that remembers aspects of Portuguese history and identity which the Estado Novo regime in particular would like to forget. In particular, the azulejos attest to the presence and significance of the al-Andalus Muslim occupation of the territory for 500 years. The erasure of ceramic tiles from the so-called modern Portuguese nation functions as a politics which seeks to kill politics; an eradication of difference, of time, and of history. The urgency of uncovering the history of the azulejos, of not letting it be lost in false nationalistic narratives, and of maintaining their place within Portuguese design history and practice, is a struggle precisely against a fascist regime which seeks to eliminate opposition in service of power.
It is important to note the countless historic azulejos are visible in Portugal today. Despite their distaste for the ceramic tiles, the Estado Novo regime did not remove azulejos from all historic buildings. In fact, regardless of their lack of favour during Português Suave and the imperative to be modern delivered by the regime, many Portuguese architects such as Raul Lino maintained a strong affinity for the ceramic tiles. Interestingly, Lino maintained a close personal relationship with Salazar, and did not use the ceramic tiles in his work, though he wrote passionately of their possibilities. Lino took issue with the increasingly ‘amorphous, spiritless, faceless aspect of the Western metropolis’ that was taking over Portuguese design and felt the azulejos stood as an integral articulation of the ‘eternal spirit of the Portuguese people’.[26] Soon after the Revolução dos Cravos (Carnation Revolution), which ended the near 40-year rule of the Estado Novo regime, the azulejos returned as a design material; a triumph not of will, not of determination or power of a fixed national identity, but an embrace of a democratic, fluid, and hybrid nation.
The urgency of memory does not end with a singular recollection nor the fall of one fascist regime, but rather requires constant attention and care for history. Currently, the azulejos are under a different threat of disappearance: commodification. The manufacture of contemporary azulejos is principally for tourist markets which covet the ceramic tiles as aesthetic objects, often disregarding their design value and history. The implications of the commodity fetishism of azulejos are yet unexplored. Likewise, an inquiry into how this reflects the contemporary national identity of Portugal remains unwritten. There is an urgency to attend to this emerging history, as the lust for azulejos has grown so strong that numerous historical sites in Portugal are filled with gaping holes, thieves having removed the ceramic tiles for sale on the black market. The commodification of the azulejos appears to be eradicating its history twice, removing both the idea and the object. As more scholars emerge to build robust histories of the movement and design of these ceramic tiles, further questions and knowledge can be gleaned about the nature of Portuguese identity.[27]
Caroline DeFrias
Caroline DeFrias (CDF) is an artist-academic, currently operating in Mi’kma’ki territory in Kjipuktuk (so called Halifax, Canada). Their work, through a variety of mediums and disciplines, seeks to explore the construction of gallery space and the encounter of the art object, notions of inheritance and identity in relation to immigration and (re)settlement, as well as the ethics and pathos of the archive. They hold a Combined Honours with distinction Bachelor of Arts from the University of King’s College in Social Anthropology and the Historiography of Science, with a certificate in Art History and Visual Culture, and are pursuing a Masters of Fine Art in Art History from Concordia University.
[1] Catarina Geraldes, ‘The Integration of Azulejos in the Modernist Architecture of Portugal as a unique case in Europe’ in Marluci Menezes, Dória Rodrigues Costa, and J Delgado Rodrigues (eds), Intangibility Matters: International Conference on the Values of Tangible Heritage (LNEC 2017) 139-147.
[2] João Miguel dos Santos Simões, Estudos De Azulejaria (Imprensa Nacional Casa Da Moeda 1956) 268.
[3] Oleg Grabar, ‘What Makes Islamic Art Islamic?’ in Islamic Art and Beyond, volume III, Constructing the Study of Islamic Art (Routledge 2006), 247–251, 248.
[4] Donald N Wilber, ‘The Development of Mosaic Faiënce in Islamic Architecture in Iran’ (1939) 6(1) Ars Islamica 16.
[5] See eg Mark Cartwright, ‘Portuguese Empire’ (World History Encyclopedia, 21 July 2021) <https://www.worldhistory.org/Portuguese_Empire/> accessed 1 July 2024.
[6] Erdal Eser, ‘The First Islamic Monument Kubbet'üs-Sahra (Dome of the Rock): A New Proposition’ (2017) 23 Pesa International Journal of Social Studies 135-147.
[7] Grabar (n 3) 250.
[8] Quoted in Elizabeth Macaulay-Lewis, ‘The Dome of the Rock (Qubbat Al-Sakhra)’ (Khan Academy) <https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/ap-art-history/west-and-central-asia-apahh/west-asia/a/the-dome-of-the-rock-qubbat-al-sakhra#:~:text=The%20Dome%20of%20the%20Rock%20is%20a%20building%20of%20extraordinary,surpassing%20as%20to%20defy%20description> accessed 1 July 2024.
[9] Maria Fernanda Alegria, Suzanne Daveau, João Carlos Garcia, and Francesc Relaño, ‘Portuguese Cartography in the Renaissance’ in David Woodward (ed), The History of Cartography, Volume 3, Part 1: Cartography in the European Renaissance (University of Chicago Press 2007) 956-1068, 1033.
[10] Le Corbusier quoted in Guillaume Janneau, ‘L’Exposition des arts techniques de 1925’ (1923) Le Bulletin de la vie artistique 64.
[11] Mark Wigley, ‘Chronic Whiteness’ (e-flux Architecture, November 2020) <https://www.e-flux.com/architecture/sick-architecture/360099/chronic-whiteness/> accessed 1 July 2024.
[12] José Miguel Sardica, ‘The Memory of the Portuguese First Republic throughout the Twentieth Century’ (2011) 9 e.Journal of Portuguese History 63.
[13] ibid 67.
[14] Raquel da Silva & Ana Sofia Ferreira, ‘The Post-Dictatorship Memory Politics in Portugal Which Erased Political Violence from the Collective Memory’ (2018) 53(1) Integrative Psychological and Behavioral Science 26.
[15] ibid.
[16] Fernando Rosas, ‘O salazarismo e o homem novo: Ensaio sobre o Estado Novo e a questão do totalitarismo’ (2011) 35(157) Análise Social 1033.
[17] Rita Almeida de Carvalho, ‘Ideology and Architecture in the Portuguese ‘Estado Novo’: Cultural Innovation within a Para-Fascist State (1932–1945)’ (2018) 7(2) Fascism 146.
[18] ibid 155.
[19] ibid 154.
[20] ‘Campanha Do Bom Gôsto’ (1941) 1 Ponorama: Revista Portuguesa de Arte e Turismo; my translation.
[21] De Carvalho (n 17) 159.
[22] António de Oliveira Salazar, Discursos e Notas Políticas: 1938-1943, vol 3 (2nd edn, Coimbra Editora 1944) 259; my translation.
[23] Le Corbusier, Towards a New Architecture (14th edn, Dover Publications 1986) 84.
[24] De Carvalho (n 17) 170.
[25] Ellen W Sapega, ‘Image and Counter-Image: The Place of Salazarist Images of National Identity in Contemporary Portuguese Visual Culture’ (2002) 39(2) Luso-Brazilian Review 47.
[26] De Carvalho (n 17) 163.
[27] Possibilities for future research include the exploration of the ceramic tiles within Portugal’s own imperial project; and the complex meanings and evolution of the azulejos in Brazil, India, the Philippines, East Timor, Angola, Mozambique, Guinea-Bissau, Cape Verde, São Tomé and Príncipe, and Equatorial Guinea. Attending to the history of the Portuguese export of the ceramic tile will further critical studies into the nature of Portuguese imperialism and colonialism, as well as the national identity that fostered them.