The Names of Spain

Manólo 'El señorito' (the lordling) wears his nickname with pride at the recent Dia Internacionál del Lomo en Manteca in Vejer. The festival celebrates the annual pig-killing and the creation of manteca, a speciality made of flavoured pork lard.

 Most people know about the Spanish system of nicknames in which first names are shortened, combined or adapted, so that Juan Pedro becomes ‘Juanpe’, Francisco is ‘Paco’ and José is ‘Pepe’, among a multitude of others. Nachos, Quiques, Chanos and Chemas abound throughout Spain and these shortened forms are recognised everywhere, but there’s another system of nicknames, local and personal, which you only understand when you know the people and live in the place.

Conil: on the extreme right, Juan Muñoz Leal 'Perragorda', literally 'fat bitch'.

   An early reader of this blog pointed out, quite correctly, that nicknames have existed and continue to exist in all human societies, and without wanting to write an essay on social anthropology, I should explain that I'm talking here about a phenomenon which ethnologists describe as a 'nickname system'. In other words, the use of nicknames has a distinct social function and follows certain rules, which have evolved over time. Nickname systems are typical of the kind of traditional society which has now almost died out in most of Western Europe, and it's interesting to find evidence that some of these customs persist in our part of Spain.

  One of the things which intrigued me when I lived in a Cornish seaside town was the rich fund of nicknames the local people used for their friends and family, which almost amounted to a parallel naming system. It’s often been argued that these local nicknames are given when many people share the same name. Naming traditions were often very conservative, with sons named after their fathers and daughters after their mothers, and so within a few generations, a new method of distinguishing different individuals was required. Nicknames were therefore used to differentiate different famiies with the same surname, so for example, if you belonged to one branch of the Stephens family, you were a ‘Cush’, if to another, you were a ‘Blue’.

 María, 'La Gavanilla' buys coal from Diego, the 'Carbonero', while María 'La Cara' passes by.

  This explanation is very appealing and undoubtedly explains in part the widespread use of nicknames which, as I soon discovered, is a feature of all societies, and not limited to Cornwall, or even to Europe. However, as nicknames are also used in communities where a wide range of surnames exists, it’s clear that they are also related to an older naming tradition than the one we use now. 

One of Juan 'Camacha's' remarkable photographs of 

Conil fishermen.

  Writing in 1892, John Hobson Matthews declared that ‘They (nicknames) are a relic of a primitive state of society, and flourish only where primitive ideas still prevail’, and though his dismissal of nicknames as ‘primitive’ is inaccurate, he is probably right to say that the roots of the custom lie deep in the past. 

   Just as in other countries, nobody in Spain chose to have an official family name or names. The necessity to find one was imposed by law at the end of the 16th century, when the population was growing fast and the Council of Trent judged it necessary to register every individual.

  Faced with this requirement, the Spanish people drew on a number of traditions to equip themselves with a legal identity. Many people had previously used the patronymic system, adding an ‘ez’ to their father’s name and writing it after their own. This tradition, which dates back to the Visigoths, meant that Gonzalo, son of Alvaro, would be Gonzalo Alvarez, and that his son, named after the grandfather, would be Alvaro González. After the law changed, Alvaro would also have had to give the name González to his own children.

   Other traditions included naming people after physical characteristics, (Calvo - bald headed), place of origin (de Córdoba) or occupation (Herrera - blacksmith). All these surnames persist today, among many others, and some were clearly based on nicknames which had been awarded to an individual, only to be passed on to his children when surnames became compulsory. And as Spanish naming customs require that every child is baptised with first its father's and then its mother's surname, and religious custom involved adding at baptism the name of the parish patron saint, official names were often lengthy and cumbersome, as in the case of the painter Pablo Picasso, who was baptised Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso. In cases like this. some kind of simplification is both desirable and inevitable.

  Nicknames arose from speech, not from legislators or bureaucrats, and so they form part of the oral tradition which is an essential part of every culture. Not surprisingly, once surnames became formalised, they lost their power to express close identity and personal knowledge, as well as their usefulness as a vehicle for wit and invention. In a culture which was already rich before writing and reading became universal pursuits, nicknames expressed both individuality and social cohesion. 

  I first became aware of the existence of local surnames in this part of the world when my friend Adrián, from nearby Conil, told me that his father, Sebastián Brenes, was known among his friends as ‘El Plancha’ (an iron, grill or metal plate). Intriguingly, the surname ‘Brenes’ is of Celtic origin, referring to a site where metal is worked. The British equivalent is ‘Baines’. Yes, Adrián confirmed, his grandfather had also been ‘El Plancha’. And while it’s a stretch to imagine a nickname enduring from as long ago as the Iron Age, the connection is intriguing.

Vejer: Antonia 'la Matea' Mateo

  I wanted to find out if local nicknames were as common here as they are in Cornwall, and I was lucky to find ‘Conil en la Memoria’, a collection of photographs taken in that town over the past 130 years. Early pictures revealed very little. Local nicknames are the speciality of the working classes, many of whom, in the early years of this century, still did not read or write. Only the wealthy could afford to have their photos taken, and the first images show well-dressed people, formally posed with both surnames, father’s and mother’s, respectfully attached. It isn’t until the nineteen sixties that a photographer called Juan ‘Capacha’ arrives on the scene to document the lives of working people.

 ‘Capacha’ doesn’t feature on any list of famous photographers, but he was clearly passionate about recording the day-to day life of Conil. For the first time, we see María, ‘la Cubana’, Ramón ‘Cacho’ Nuñez, the gardener, Juan ‘el Sillero’, Juan Alba, ‘el Chato’ and ‘el Guaqui’, the ice-cream maker. In a beautiful picture from the 1970s, Tomás Pareja ‘Boquerón’ and Antonia Caballero ‘La Matea' haul ropes during the Jábega fishing season.

'Boqueron' and 'La Matea', apparently an unusual example of a woman working in the fishing industry. As she's not really dressed for work, and 'Boqueron' is not working too hard either, the photo was probably posed.

Some of these nicknames simply describe occupations and are easy to understand. There’s no mystery about why Chana, who made churros, should be ‘la Churrera’, though why her husband, Sebastián, should be ‘el Chulo’ is less clear. The word means ‘cute’, or, nowadays, ‘cool’, though the noun form also means ‘pimp’. A ‘cacho’ is a little piece, and this is a common nickname in Spain, but ‘Guaqui' is not in the dictionary, unless it relates to the town of the same name in Bolivia, a distant, though not inconceivable possibility. Less exotically, it's probably a diminutive of the Christian name 'Joaquín'.

I half hoped that ‘La Matea' would mean ‘killer woman’, but it seems that this is a common nickname for women with the surname ‘Mateo’. ‘Chato’ means snub-nosed, or possibly short-sighted. In other words, a nickname can derive from almost anything that marks you out as an individual, for good or bad.

 After making these discoveries, I had no doubt that nicknames would be as prevalent in Vejer as in Conil, and so it proved to be. I quickly found the butcher Pepe ‘el Perlino’ (pearly) Tello, pictured at a social occasion, Alfonso ‘La Tila’ (‘lime blossom’, but possibly referring to a site in Vejer) Melero, still at school and Antonia ‘la Matea’ Mateo. There was Morillo ‘el Curricán’ (fishing line) Basallote, José 'el Burra' Domínguez, José el Mozo, (lad) Maria 'La Lobita' (presumably from nearby 'La Lopita', though 'loba' is also a slang term for a prostitute), the young footballer Manolito ‘el Mono’ (the monkey), Joselita 'el Penumbra' (the shadow)...'El Tumba' (the tomb). Interestingly, those who remembered María ‘la Gabanilla’ spelled her nickname in several different ways, a clear indication that these nicknames proceed from a spoken, rather than a written tradition.

Vejer 1973: Manólito 'El Mono' is on the bottom row, second from the right.

  The list could go on and on, and there is scope here for serious research. Some names are specific to one individual, but as John Hobson Matthews said, ‘some names cling to these families through generations’. The system of nicknames can involve the past history as well as the present situation of every individual. 

  Nickname systems have been described by ethnologists as a means of expressing relationships of power and trust; 'to place people but also to put them in their place'. Nicknames are rarely used by families or outsiders, and so provide a mechanism for establishing new social circles outside the family group. Where nicknames are predominantly used by men, the intention is usually to exert control through verbal aggression, and though in this area, they are generally used equally by both sexes, the existence of 'apodos' like 'perragorda' - fat bitch - suggests that not every nickname is awarded in a spirit of kindliness and social cohesion.

  It’s clear that the tradition of the local nickname plays an important part in marking different levels of intimacy in a community. A visitor may know your first name and even your surname, but only an insider knows your nickname. The tradition is under threat now, as universal literacy and movement of people from the pueblos to the cities undermines so many local customs, but with luck, the nickname tradition will survive for a long while yet.

La Barca - Vejer's water world.

Nature is slowly taking over the old mill.

Some time last year, I saw this photo by my friend María Muñoz Melero of the old water mill at La Barca, and was fascinated by a relic of Vejer’s past which I had neither heard of nor seen. María remembers playing around the old mill with her sister in the 1970s, surrounded by all the beauties of nature. 

Before long, I made my way to La Barca, and found the mill

The La Barca well

, nestling amid weeds and branches, an evocative reminder of a past age. It was purely by accident that I also discovered the old well, a little way along the road towards Barbate. Though disused, it was obviously once a cause of pride as well as utility, and I can easily imagine the gossiping and courtship that must once have taken place as the water was drawn.

La Barca in the early twentieth century, as motor vehicles began
to replace river transport.

La Barca (Ferry) is now a rather quiet place, with a long-distance bus stop and a couple of restaurants, but until the early 20th century, it was a thriving river port, which had been in existence since before Roman times. At its height, it boasted a population of 700 and a church dedicated to St. Nicolas. When the river port closed in 1928, the church closed and the community shrank. 

The water mill and its cousin, the public well, are two examples of local water engineering which you don’t hear about at the tourist office, but they are important symbols of a time when natural resources were used to carry out agricultural processes, and piped water was unheard of in most of Andalucía.

El Poniente restaurant.

Here at the top of the hill, we’re used to the sight of Vejer’s windmills, now mostly restored and preserved as museum items or used as locations for restaurants. El Poniente and El Macinino are popular with residents and visitors alike. 

The mill seen from La Cuesta de la Barca.

We tend to associate water mills with the preserved examples in Santa Lucia, which have also been restored and can be visited via the footpath which is signposted at the top of the village. The mill on the river was only one of a number of mills which harnessed wind and water to ensure a measure of prosperity, first for their owners, the Dukes of Medina Sidonia, and subsequently for the  more middle-class owners who acquired them after the middle of the nineteenth century.

Water now barely flows through these graceful arches.

The production and grinding of wheat into flour were the main source of Vejer’s wealth in the nineteenth century and the mills were kept busy. The mill at La Barca is not very accessible, and its immediate surroundings are marshy and overgrown.  It is situated on the South bank of the river, and can be reached via a track which runs past the car repair workshop. It isn’t safe for young children, but adults might like to take a peek.

Large boats could still be seen at La Barca until about 1930

Though it may be difficult to imagine, looking at the overgrown and silted-up waterway, tons of goods were once transported via La Barca to the overseas port at Barbate. The port

A view of La Barca in the early 20th century,
with the river Barbate still clear

reached its height in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when it was administered by the Dukes of Medina Sidonia as a sorting depot for their imports and exports.

La Barca was a place of crucial importance to Vejer because it was the main source of fresh water, which was carried up the hill on the backs of mules, to be sold for drinking, and the public fountain appears to have been a place for gathering and recreation, as well as for hydration.


In 1904, Vejer became one of the first towns in Andalucía to acquire piped water, though this service was only available to the wealthy. The majority of the people had to continue bringing their water up the hill until 1949, when a public fountain was created on the Plaza de España. The well at La Barca soon became redundant, and fell into disuse, though piped water did not become universally available in Vejer until the 1970s.

'The public well of Our Lady of the Olive'

La Cobijada - a beautiful impostor.

La Cobijada - a beautiful impostor

 I was taking a walk in Vejer a little while ago when I met Eric and Barbara, a lovely couple from Canada. They told me how much they enjoyed this blog, and asked me why I hadn’t posted recently. 

When I began the blog, I intended to continue for just one year, covering the main social and cultural events in the town. These don’t change very much year on year, and so I decided that one year would be enough. However, thanks to Eric and Barbara, and several others who have missed the blog, I’ve decided to carry on for a while, and there is certainly plenty to write about. 

  

This time, I’d like to discuss the iconic figure of the Cobijada, Vejer’s covered lady. One of the town’s ceramic plaques describes her as ‘a glimpse of old al-Andalus’, and many observers have instinctively connected her flowing black costume with the burqa worn by some Moslem women. In fact, she is an impostor, with no real connections to Islamic Spain.

Covered women, 1926

The burqa, which came to our attention with the ascendency of the Taliban in Afghanistan in the 1990s, has been worn by Afghani women for about 100 years, though the practice of veiling upper-class women dates back at least 4000 years in some parts of Arabia.  However, most women had to work in the fields, where a burqa would be an impediment, and to wear it was a sign of upper-class status, denoting a woman of importance. 

'Preparation for a wedding' Frederick Arthur Bridgman (1847-1928)

 Veiling women became important to Islam in the 11th century, but there is no evidence that the women of el-Andalus wore any garment resembling a burqa. Most of the images available to us now were created in the 19th century and express the prejudices of their time.

When I write about topics like this, I sometimes feel like a real party pooper, because there is no doubt that Vejer’s Moorish heritage has become an important part of the narrative the tourist industry has created around the town's history. As often happens, this tells us more about the present than the past. Since the nineteenth century, when the poet Lord Byron introduced the idea of Romantic orientalism to an admiring public, we westerners have been attracted to the idea of the Mysterious East, and this fascination culminated in the architecture of the Moorish Revival in the late nineteenth century.

It wasn’t always like that. After Vejer was reconquered in the thirteenth century, every effort was made to eradicate the remnants of the Islamic occupation in an early example of what we would now describe as 'ethnic cleansing'. Compared with the Roman occupation, and even the two thousand year old Tartessian culture, there are minimal physical remains of the Moslem era, and this clearly did not happen by accident. 

Dark and modest clothing was obligatory
for all Spanish women

After the area was reconquered in the mid thirteenth century, Moslems were expected to leave or convert. Most chose to leave, and it is calculated that by the 14th century, only 1% of the population was of Moslem origin. About 30% of the post-reconquista population left town when the area came under retaliatory attack from Moorish fighters between 1264 and 1300. For about half a century, Vejer was a military garrison, populated mainly by men, before the area was repopulated by families from northern Spain.

By the end of the Reconquista in 1492, hatred of Jews and Moslems had already descended into racist paranoia. ‘Conversos’, those who converted to Christianity, were mistrusted, and ‘limpieza de sangre’ (purity of blood) was enforced from 1449, prohibiting those of non-Christian heritage from taking public office. Commoners who could show descent from the Visigoths were raised to the nobility, and in the days before DNA testing, pedigrees were hastily assembled or invented to support claims of racial purity. ‘Purity of blood’ continued to be a criterion for entry into the Spanish armed forces until the nineteenth century.

A Spanish lady goes to Mass with her maid.

The emphasis on racial purity had enormous implications for women. Racism brought with it a terror of inter-racial sexuality, with its consequent ‘pollution’ of blood. Women were responsible for upholding the family honour, and their men were expected to control them. They were closely guarded and ‘modest’ clothing was regulated by law as in some Islamic states today. 

All this means that rather than a gradual evolution from Islamic to Christian culture, the breach was violent, sudden and comprehensive. By the sixteenth century, Spain was asserting itself as a bulwark of Catholicism. The Inquisition was set up to police religious correctness, and people would do anything within their means to refute claims that they had Moorish blood. Spain became defiantly and even belligerently Christian. Nobody was about to announce Islamic cultural affiliations by wandering around in a burqa. Not even in a quiet backwater like Vejer.

Christian nuns - The Sisters of Mary Immaculate Queen

So where do the Cobijada coverings originate, and why do they so closely resemble the burqa, chador or niqab worn today by some Moslem women? The answer lies in our shared religious heritage. Jewish women in ancient times were expected to cover their heads whenever they left their homes - according to the Law of Moses, a woman was regarded as immodest ‘If she goes out with her hair unbound, or spins in the street, or speaks with any man.’

This principle survived into the Christian and Islamic faiths which developed from Judaism, and was strongly stated by the Christian evangelist St. Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians: ‘For if the woman is not covered, let her also be shorn: but if it is a shame for a woman to be shorn or shaven, let her be covered.’ 

Covered woman, Tarifa, 19th century

The custom of women covering themselves, whose roots are probably cultural rather than ideological, was adopted by the emerging Islamic faith in the 7th century, though ironically, the Qur’an is less specific about this than the Bible, stating only that ‘they should not display their beauty and ornaments except what must ordinarily appear thereof; that they should draw their veils over their bosoms and not display their beauty except to their husbands.’

Right into the twentieth century, it was customary for women in all Christian countries to cover their heads and their hair. My mother was one of the rebel post-war generation who dared to go bare-headed in the street, though no woman of her generation would have gone hatless into a church.

This is why Christian nuns cover themselves with wimple and veil, many Moslem women wear the burqa or the niqab and Orthodox Jewish women dress modestly and cover their heads. ‘Modesty’ is also required of men, but it takes a different form. 

The coverings we now associate with the Cobijada became fashionable in Madrid in the eighteenth century and the fashion spread south to Andalucia. They soon became the customary outdoor wear of ordinary women, not just in Vejer but all along the coast from Tarifa to Cádiz. This style was also popular in other parts of Spain.

La Cobijada survived longer in Andalucía than in other parts of Spain because the area was very poor. Clothing was passed down from mother to daughter, patched, pressed and altered for each new generation.

Modern coverings lined with red satin.

The Cobijada coverings consist of two parts - the manto, a sleeveless cape which covers the upper body, and the saya, a long, pleated skirt, gathered at the waistband. The garments were made of gabardine, and like the burqa, provided ‘instant respectability’ for any woman who needed to leave the house for while. It was a smart and useful outfit, and could be lined with satin to make it more comfortable. Its fitting waist and sensuous folds emphasised a feminine shape while maintaining a touch of mystery.

The manto could be loosed from the woman’s top and allowed to hang over her skirt when she needed to use her hands and arms, and she could also pull it over her head and hold it closed with her teeth, one eye peeping out as in the standard depiction. In many ways, it was a useful flirting accessory. But the Cobijada clothing was banned in the early twentieth century when civil unrest made it useful for disguising weapons, and the outfit began a steady decline. It was initially discouraged by the Franco regime which opposed regional culture and in the austere first years of the regime the garments were cut up and made into other things. 

Although Cobijada women could still be seen in Vejer in the 1970s, these women were older and in general they kept their coverings for certain special occasions. Nowadays, there is a resurgence in the popularity of the costume and an annual competition to find the senior and junior Cobijadas of the year. La Cobijada has become a Vejer icon and one of the things which give the town its special identity.

Moorish and Christian women play chess in Islamic Spain

A pre-reconquista image shows a Moslem and a Christian women playing chess together. Their clothes are surprisingly similar, but there’s one important difference. While Christian women were expected to wear long skirts, the Moslem woman wears baggy trousers under a tunic. This is the real difference between Christian and Moslem dress. While a Christian woman could be punished and even burned for wearing trousers, many Middle Eastern women were expected to wear them, and they are still normal wear for some women in the region.

Blanca Gortari's colourful Cobijadas.

The Living Nativity: a beautiful way to begin Christmas.

The Zambombá

Like many refugees from the more materialistic British Christmas, I love to spend the season of goodwill in Vejer. Rather than struggling to heap up extravagant gifts for ever more demanding youngsters, or toiling over a giant turkey roast, it's relaxing to be in a place where Christmas is a bit more about community and family. The little town is bright with lights and Christmas music will play throughout the Christmas season. These are things we can all share, and the streets are crowded with people, not stressing about finding that final gift but enjoying a celebratory outing with family and friends. Gifts are not exchanged until January 6th, leaving Christmas itself free for socialising.

Two street events dominate the run-up to Christmas: the Zambombá and the Living Nativity. The Zambombá is a social event which often takes place in the late afternoon. The traditional format includes a brazier to keep participants warm, food, sometimes complementary, and live performance of popular Christmas songs. If you are lucky, you could even see the eccentric musical instrument the event is named after, the Zambombá, a kind of friction drum which in German-speaking countries is delightfully named the Rummelpott. The up-and-down action of this instrument can cause hilarity among foreign visitors, but it's fascinating to visit a traditional zambombá where this unique sound can be heard.

The other big public event, the Living Nativity, takes place on the Sunday before Christmas day, and it is only one of several nativities which can be seen around town. If you are lucky enough to get an invitation to one of the schools' nativities which are held at the end term, you'll be charmed by the inventiveness of the event, not a theatrical one, as in the UK and the USA, but a series of tableaux in which every child gets to take part.

The main event, however, involves the streets of the old town and most of its inhabitants in a recreation of the entire town of Bethlehem, with its craftspeople, animals, and of course, its Holy Family. King Herod, accompanied by a bevy of dancers, Pontius Pilate with his Roman soldiers and the Three Kings are all depicted, despite the fact that they don't appear in the accounts of Christ's birth which appear in the gospels of St. Luke and St. Matthew.

The tradition of the nativity seems to have started in the thirteenth century, with St. Francis of Assisi. The saint deplored the materialism and commercialisation of Christmas celebrations and wanted to
put the emphasis back onto the spritual meaning of the Christian festival, suggesting that nothing much has changed in seven hundred years. The first nativities were, as Vejer's, living nativities which involved animals and children, mobilising most of the resources of the medieval village.

Since then, the nativity has become a popular event in every Christian country, though its form has evolved differently according to the cultures which presented it. While northern countries adopted the theatrical tradition of the medieval mystery plays, the living nativity has remained popular in southern Europe and the Spanish and Italian versions are regularly presented on television.

Both Vejer and Medina Sidonia present living nativities and both are well worth seeing for anyone, religious or not,  who wants to experience the rich and vibrant culture of out town and to enjoy the wit and creativity of its inhabitants.

The sevillanas dance.

Adrián Brenes and Cristina Zájara dance Sevillanas at the Hotel Fuerte in Conil

Feria is over and it’s time for Vejer to get back to normal. Shops and restaurants have reopened and the countdown to summer has started in earnest.

Before the memories fade, it’s a good time to remember that typical event of feria, the sevillanas dance which can be seen in every caseta from the Horse Club to the Partida Popular. Sevillanas are danced in Andalucía whenever there is something to celebrate, be it a wedding, a birthday or just a party, and many people have some expertise. You don’t have to be a skilled flamenco dancer to dance sevillanas because it is not a flamenco dance but an old folk-dance which was influenced by flamenco after that style emerged in the late eighteenth century.

Despite the name, sevillanas did not originate in Seville, though they are now identified with that region. They came from the Castille region and evolved from an older dance form called seguidillas.

Sevillanas is a couple dance, but there is no pressure to team up with a partner of the opposite sex and it is now more usual to see women dancing together. Nevertheless, the dance describes the process of courtship. There is very little touching between partners because when the dance evolved, courting couples had to dance it under the watchful eyes of parents and grandparents who were constantly on the lookout for any impropriety, but despite this, the dance has an erotic quality, especially when performed by seasoned professionals.

Sevillanas follow a strict choreography. The dance is divided into four sections and each one is a separate ‘sevillana’. Each sevillanas consists of three parts, or ‘coplas’ which combine a variety of steps. The most important steps are the basic ‘sevillana’ step, the ‘pasada’ where the two dancers cross each other to reverse positions and the ‘cierre’ which closes each sevillana. It takes about four minutes to dance the full set. 

Dancing Sevillanas at Feria is part of the Andalusian way of life.

 The sevillanas we see here in Vejer is just one of several different forms you can see in various parts of Andalucía, which include Romeros de la Puebla and Corraleros de Lebrija. These different forms share the unmistakable ¾ rhythm and the characteristic tone of celebratory gaiety, as well as a number of similar steps.

I once tried to learn sevillanas with the help of my friend Adrián Brenes, a professional flamenco dancer. Adrián has a cupboard at home bursting with awards he has won for dancing sevillanas. When he dances with his friend Cristina Zájara, the couple seem to float above the ground, inspired by angels.You can see them dance sevillanas here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bHYNQZ33nhs

 However, despite his skill as a dancer and a teacher, Adrián didn’t make much progress with me. I was always in the wrong place at the wrong time and I couldn’t help wondering why my feet had been placed so far away from my brain. Combining the feet and arm movements was difficult and in the end I gave up in despair.

Since then, I’ve looked carefully at the way sevillanas are danced by everyday mortals, and it’s clear that they often don’t follow the prescribed sequence of steps. Keeping to the rhythm and remembering the pasadas and arm movements appear to be the priority and what the feet are doing is often concealed by the generous skirts of the ‘traje flamenca’. Many men particularly, are skilled at combining the maximum effect with the minimum effort.

Dancing sevillanas is something we can all do in our own way, but even if you don’t want to take part, this colourful dance is an essential part of feria.

You can see part of Carlos Saura’s film ‘Sevillanas’ here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7fGt1NCAvY&list=PL8EF079C5DD2BA83D

Arte Vejer: a home for artists.

It’s been a while since I added to this blog. The busy summer, several trips overseas and the loss of my camera, not to mention my novel ‘The Three Witches’ have all kept me away from my page. Now it’s time to come back with some exciting news about a new community association which will benefit anyone who is interested in the visual arts in our town.

Walking around the town on a Saturday morning, you might have noticed a posse of artists sketching one of our many beautiful buildings or fascinating corners. These are the Vejer Sketchers, a group of artists linked to the international ‘Urban Sketchers’ movement, who devote their Saturday mornings to creating art from the street. One of the sketchers is Vejer artist Sol Muniain, who last year held a successful exhibition at the shop ‘Ya En Tu Casa’ on the Corredera.

For some time now, Sol has had a dream. A permanent space where artists could meet to share their skills and show their work, where contacts could be made, information exchanged and the profile of art in the area could be raised. The contribution of Vejer’s informal exhibition spaces, The Tetería del Califa, the Tetería Chokolata and Ya En Tu Casa, as well as the Casa del Arco gallery and the Ayuntamiento’s Casa de la Cultura can’t be underestimated, but there was a need for a permanent centre, somewhere which would act as a focus and a point of reference for art all the year round.

Preparing for the inaugural exhibition

Sol’s dream took a big step forward this autumn when she had the chance to tell the Mayor of Vejer, José Ortiz Galvan, what she had in mind. He was enthusiastic about her ideas and offered the support of the Ayuntamiento, including the possibility of using premises owned by the local authority to kick-start the project.

Since then, plans have moved forward rapidly. Five individuals have united to create a steering committee for the project, and documentation has been prepared to make a formal presentation to the Mayor and council. This will take place on Wednesday December 3rd. The project has been named ‘Arte Vejer’ and an application has been made to register the project as an official community organisation.

Sketching on the roof of the Casa de la Cultura

Arte Vejer already has a well-supported Facebook page and will shortly appear on Twitter and email. Its aims are two-fold: to create networks and display spaces for artists and to provide access to art education for the whole community. The project has already attracted support from local artists and will make its debut at the Casa de la Cultura on Sunday December 7th, as part of the Vejer Open Town day, when an exhibition of work by the Vejer Sketchers and a open art workshop will be offered as part of the event. For anyone who is interested, it’s a great opportunity to find out more and maybe get involved.

November 2016

Visitors to the popular inaugural exhibition

Since I wrote this blog in 2014, many people have seen it and it's about time I gave an update on Arte Vejer's progress. In fact, the project has gone from strength to strength in the two years since Sol first put the wheels into motion and has become a feature of Vejer life, with many different events and classes being offered.

Arte Vejer was inaugurated on Vejer Open Day in December 2014, when Vejer sketchers produced an exhibition of watercolours in the Casa de la Cultura. This proved extremely popular and the video which played throughout the day is still available on YouTube. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v6mBHBnLo1c

Arte Vejer judged a schools' art exhibition

The inauguration was followed by a fund-raising Christmas party at the Peña Flamenca Alquilar de Vejer just before Christmas. Twenty or more local cafes and restaurants contributed food for this buffet which raised some useful working capital for the group. 

In 2015, Arte Vejer was formally registered as one of Vejer's recognised cultural associations, a big step which brought changes with it. Arte Vejer was now expected to provide education and cultural development for the whole community, and this aspect has proved to be an enormous success, with courses in life drawing, graffiti, and everything in between. Children's activities have proved especially successful, and in 2015, Arte Vejer was asked to judge an art competition in local schools. A video of one children's art activity can be seen here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XQN4AZMDuQ

 One of the group's group's most spectacular event occurred in the spring of 2016 when artists took to the street for a 'walking exhibition'. Holding their work aloft, and accompanied by a drum band, artists paraded the town, drawing an admiring audience. The event included flamenco dance and a drumming display.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIfzJlolTlc

The walking exhibition was a huge success

The Mayor visits the inaugural exhibition in the Castle

A big breakthrough came earlier this year when the souvenir shop on the Castle closed and the Ayuntamiento offered the premises to Arte Vejer as a base and exhibition space. The group has
made good use of the opportunity and has used the space to mount exhibitions and courses on a wide-ranging basis, including photography and design as well as painting.

One of Arte Vejer's many workshops at the Castle centre

Since Arte Vejer began, changes have inevitably occurred. Sol resigned the post of president earlier in 2016 when she and her family moved away from Vejer, but visits regularly and keeps in close contact. The new president, Ismael Virués, an architect who has been involved with Arte Vejer from the outset, works untiringly for the group and has developed it as a vital and innovative institution from which the whole town benefits.

Arte Vejer is on Facebook: 

https://www.facebook.com/Arte-Vejer-735346356547740/?fref=ts

The committee at the castle centre