Hearts of stone


In this rocky area of Portugal, stone is an obvious choice in which to begin looking at material culture.

Stone is a paradox. It has existed for millions of years and will continue to do so for millions more. We experience stone for a minuscule fraction of its time line. Yet we do affect stone. We quarry it, chisel it into shape, build with it, live with its coolness and warmth. We scratch graffiti on it. It provides an illusion of permanence. It is immobile for long enough for lichens and mosses to etch its surface, and for generations of plants to cling to it. Its weight pushes against gravity. In Monsanto, people live beneath huge granite boulders.

But as soon as humans have finished with stones, they soon begin to forget. Plaster and render peel off. Mortar crumbles. Drystone walls are nudged by animals and weather.  Blocks are levered out and reused, and buildings become quarries, completing a natural circle. Tumbling walls bury themselves, and vegetation blankets them. Soon, all that is left are stone memories.

Each stone is the memory of an effort, of a choosing, a lifting, a judging, a placing, an adjustment and a final standing back – an acceptance and appreciation. Each stone is a point on a continuum of time to which we are witnesses. It is a tiny memory of the waller’s life – his eyes saw the stone, his muscles lifted it, his experience judged its fit.  We will never know whether the day was hot or cold, whether the Waller was alone or had companions, whether they were young or old, straight or bent after years of heavy labour. Nevertheless the stones are probably his only memorial. Although I hate to see a stone wall uncared-for, even its eventual collapse and transformation into a turf-covered mound memorialises the waller’s part in the creation of landscape, with its constant cycles of growth and decay, construction and abandonment, life and death.


Here a beautifully-constructed stone wall rises almost seamlessly from the bedrock, which it almost appears to caress with a primal intimacy, stone on stone.


Digital Memories

When I was thinking about how to approach my exploration of Material Memories in Portugal, I went onto Google Street View and had a quick look around. In Idanha-a-Vuela I came across this old lady, captured by the all-seeing Google eye in 2010, as she sat on the wall in front of her vegetable patch in the Spring morning sunshine :


When I visited the same spot last week, the old lady had vanished, her vegetable garden was overgrown, and the afternoon shadows were creeping over the wall on which she had sat three years ago:


So now the old lady has been memorialised by Google – she will exist, perhaps for ever, as a digital memory:



Leo the lion-livered

This is where the lion-livered long-loved Leo lived and lounged,
Sauntered and snoozed, panted and peed, barked and bounded.
Sharp-fanged, ruthless killer of fleas,
His world was the malodorous bases of walls, rat-rich rank garbage heaps
And the suspicious scents of sundry others of his canine kind.
Snarling scourge of cowardly cats and timid terroriser of tourists
Leo lived for the gentle fondling approval of old ladies
And the rough, rough, rough and tumble, rumbustious squealing joy of children.
Here in his kennel he quivered and whimpered as he dreamed siesta dreams
Of chasing rabbits, of devastating his enemies
And conquering long-legged simpering heat radiating females.

The dusty corners that Leo sniffed are still there,
While amongst the rubbish heaps and the lamp post borders of his territory,
A new generation of cats slink unchallenged.
For long-tongued Leo, long gone, is now just a blur in two dog-eared snapshots.
On his kennel, his proud name fades in sunlight fierce as a lion. 




There is something special about places where people have managed to survive in the interstices between boulders.

There is something special about the people who have managed to survive in the interstices between boulders.



A fruit tree and a single brassica share the same pocket of soil, carefully protected by a little stone wall.

There is something special.

Concrete and roses


Portugal is a country where wonderful flowers blossom in profusion in gardens and hedges.

Portugal is a country where one can find plastic roses growing in a concrete pot.

The roses have faded to a surreal funereal pallor. I guess they don’t require much watering…

People are fascinating!


Still in the Stone Age


Here I am in the Stone Age, which is, of course, today, and will be tomorrow. Despite the rise (and fall) of many other natural and human-created materials, stone is still with us, and will out-survive us far into the future, even if ground down to grains of sand.

I am in Portugal, and I’m looking at Material Memories, and my first thoughts are about stone.

Of ends and beginnings

When a place is abandoned it is at the same time an end and a beginning.

Whilst on the one hand the place retreats into the memories of those who have left, on the other it begins a new existence as a tangible but equally fragile assemblage of material memories. Buildings decay, are vandalized, are temporarily inhabited by peripatetic humans and animals, are quarried for building materials and scrap, accumulate human discards and are buried beneath vegetation. While they are still alive the place acts as a catalyst for the memories of those who lived there, but it also inspires new thought, as a unsightly or romantic ruin, depending on your viewpoint, a place of melancholy or aesthetic inspiration, an eyesore or a tourist hotspot.

The material remains of the recent past, and the memories attached to them, are often undervalued. My project is going to look at the material memories of places no longer lived in, no longer dwellings or workplaces, and yet which are still “alive.” They are demonstrating their agency, if by nothing else, by creating my memories!

I’ll be recording and sharing what I find in order both to connect with those who once lived there, but also to demonstrate the wealth of interest a seemingly “dead” place can have in the present and future.