Azulejos—decorated and glazed ceramic tiles—are among the most distinctive expressions of the Portuguese spirit in architecture. They have been used in the interior and exterior design of churches and monasteries, palaces and public buildings, apartment blocks and private houses, railway and metro stations, industrial premises, as well as cafés, restaurants, bakeries and beer halls. In the old quarters of Lisbon, it is rare to find a street without at least one façade clad in azulejos.
Most residential buildings faced with azulejos do not stand out for their artistic mastery. They are stencilled, standardised; they do not aggressively proclaim their uniqueness to passers-by. One might even call them anonymous, were it not for the identity marker—the address—fixed to them. The azulejos here feature simple geometric patterns, mainly in shades of blue, green and grey. Beige sometimes dominates, and red is occasionally used as a secondary or tertiary colour. As a rule, the entire façade is tiled, and a single, uniform pattern runs across it, although narrower tiles with denser linework are often used around windows and doors. The designs are usually abstract; the central element of a tile—or of a group of four tiles—is often a motif such as a diamond, but on closer inspection the peripheral spaces left empty by the central shape are frequently filled with delicate plant ornaments. There are also monochrome, completely undecorated tiles, though never in the sorts of colours we tend to use in our bathrooms.
The only areas on these façades not covered with tiles, where the raw stone is visible, are the thick door and window frames. The balconies feature dense wrought-iron railings with intricate patterns and are often supported by corbels with two or three vertical grooves. Occasionally, between the corbels, a few azulejos with figurative images are arranged in two rows. These stand out clearly, as the balcony floor, the upper edge of the window below, and the corbels act as a frame. Many façades are in disrepair, yet time seems to have worn down the structural framework rather than the ceramics. Street lamps are fixed directly to the buildings, and on many façades, bundles of exposed electrical wires crawl along the walls. Sometimes the street name is displayed on tiles—these stand out against the multicoloured azulejo patterns thanks to their light background—though more often it appears on a single large stone slab or is stamped directly onto the stone of the façade.
From time to time—particularly in the neighbourhoods of Alfama, Chiado, and Lapa, as well as near the Intendente metro station—we encounter azulejo buildings of a completely different kind. These command attention through their artistic execution; they could never be called anonymous, even if their addresses were removed, for they proclaim their uniqueness boldly to the world. Here, instead of abstract designs, complex plant ornaments are employed. Vases, wreaths, garlands, and pedestals abound; thick, wavy stems curl beneath medallions, and tassels and ruffles feature prominently. Some tiles are even in relief, as if flower buds and fruits had been affixed to them. This is a world of angels and putti, and here and there human faces and busts appear. Against the floral backdrop, the spaces between windows are filled with oval-framed landscapes, small scenes depicting the miracles of saints, or allegorical figures. The imagery is often directly linked to the function of the building, serving to explain, justify, or immortalise it; this makes many façades readily interpretable. The colour palette of these buildings is also livelier: yellow, beige, white, green, and blue dominate, though there are also façades in which orange shapes the overall impression.
Façades adorned with figurative and vegetal ornaments appeared somewhat later than those entirely clad in geometrically patterned azulejos. The striking contrast between the two types reflects a tension—particularly evident after the Industrial Revolution—between mass production, craftsmanship, and art.
The widespread practice of covering façades with azulejos began in Portugal in the 1840s, inspired by immigrants returning from Brazil. This trend reached a large scale with the advent of mechanised azulejo production. The new industrial methods, which allowed for the mass creation of simple, stylised patterns, gave rise to the types of façades described at the beginning of this text.
The 19th century was not only the century of the Industrial Revolution—it was also the century of Romanticism. The rapid expansion of mechanised production gave rise to numerous countercurrents: a celebration of nature, history, pre-industrial artistic styles, and handicrafts, as well as a turn “inward”. It was within this climate that our azulejo façades, adorned with floral tapestries and populated with living beings, came into being. The most famous examples date from the early 1860s, and the names of several of their artists are known.
Whenever I encountered the romantic façades I have described, I felt a shock of contact that left a pleasantly sweet taste in my mouth. I knew I was standing before masterpieces—both because others had already called them such, and because of what I myself beheld. I admired those façades like a pilgrim: humbly, dutifully, afraid to avert my gaze even for a moment. My devotion filled me with pride. I imagined myself later recounting those façades to my friends, trying to convey that it was precisely there that Lisbon revealed itself more fully than at Praça do Comércio or the São Pedro de Alcântara viewpoint (while secretly hoping that none of them would ever see them). As I walked away, I looked back, sending my gaze after those buildings until they disappeared from sight, returning them to the care of the street as gently as one might return a beloved who must not be harmed…
And yet, now—months later and kilometres away—the taste of those romantic azulejos has turned sour in my mouth. Even when I look at the photos I took, or when I think or speak of those façades, I still know they are masterpieces: unique works of art unlike anything else in the world. I remain proud of myself for having had the right to partake in such a noble relationship, and for the fact that it is thanks to me that others now know that here lies more of Lisbon than at Praça do Comércio or the São Pedro de Alcântara viewpoint (and I feel relieved that none of my acquaintances have yet been here). But I also recognise that my ongoing devotion weighs upon me, that nothing remains of the freshness of our first encounter, and that the roses and camellias of my façades are withering…
If excessive devotion almost always drives the object of my devotion away from me, it also often happens that something I barely noticed in the moment of experience—or dismissed as insignificant—begins, over time, to draw me in like a magnet. The façade of the building across from—or was it next to?—my hotel in the Anjos neighbourhood, with its brilliant green, patternless azulejos, whose origin I have no idea of, which I in fact never really looked at properly, and which I remember only in connection with downpours, cigarettes, bags of nêsperas, and my successes, desires, and longings of that time—this façade has become many times dearer to me than all the carefully preserved fragments, probably precisely because it merely slipped through my consciousness: because I never admired it with ritual thoroughness, never made it my own, never entered into temporal relations with it—and never allowed it to decay.
In this sense, getting to know a city can be compared to reading a novel. When I pause before a building or a view to admire it or take a photograph, I am marking it just as I would highlight an interesting passage in a novel I am reading. One of the things that drives me to continue reading the city-novel is the need to collect: I want my collection of marginal notes to be comprehensive, to convincingly summarise my reading experience, and even more—to eventually replace the reading experience altogether.
Although such reading is useful in a practical sense, since it allows me to think and speak about the text within clear boundaries, it does not awaken any longing in me. It is total reading. What usually makes me return to a book—or revisit a city—is instead some passage that seemed unworthy of notice or annotation, half-forgotten, and powerful precisely because of its incompleteness.
The art of Portuguese ceramic tiles is, in fact, older than I have suggested so far—and I have done so deliberately, since the earlier history of azulejos is far less visible when walking around Lisbon. This art does has its origins with the Arabs, who ruled most of the Iberian Peninsula from 711—Portugal was declared a kingdom in 1139, and Lisbon was reconquered by the Portuguese in 1147—but its roots extend back to the mosaics of the ancient world (the word azulejo derives from the Arabic term meaning “polished stone”).
The earliest azulejo compositions were created using the alicatado technique: tiles were cut into geometric shapes, each painted in a single colour like pieces of a mosaic, and then assembled into complex geometric patterns. Since this method was labour-intensive and generated a lot of cutting waste, artists in Seville—then a major art centre—soon began using the cuerda seca technique. In this method, colours were applied directly onto square clay tiles, but to prevent them from running together during firing, the areas were separated with contour lines drawn in a greasy substance mixed with black pigment. Around the turn of the 15th and 16th centuries, the arista and cuenca techniques came into use, in which colours were separated with the help of a wooden or metal mould. The dominant motifs were geometric shapes characteristic of Moorish art, along with cord and loop patterns and floral designs.
A major turning point in azulejo art occurred in the last decade of the 15th century. In 1492, Granada—the last Muslim kingdom on the Iberian Peninsula—fell to the Christians. In 1498, the Pisan artist Francesco Niculoso introduced the majolica technique to Seville. In this method, colours are applied directly onto tiles, as if onto canvas or wood. This new technique, combined with the waning influence of Islamic art and the arrival of the Renaissance, made it possible to depict more complex forms. Human and animal figures, as well as narratives, began to appear on azulejos. It is from this period that date the first multicoloured panels featuring allegorical images, saints, religious symbols, and scenes from mythology, hunting, or the Bible.
Earlier tiles were produced by craftsmen without specialised training and relied on established motifs. With the emergence of figurative style, azulejos were transformed into true works of art.
The shift to figurative art must have raised many questions, particularly regarding the composite nature of azulejos and their relationship with other art forms. Previously, the shape of the tile had been used to create more complex abstract patterns—the edges often helping to structure other geometric elements—but now the square form of the tile was no longer significant compositionally. Tiles were painted as if they formed a single continuous surface, even though, in the interest of preserving the autonomy of the artistic form, it might have been appropriate to continue emphasising their edges.
The new techniques and motifs reached Portugal in the early years of the 16th century. Since then, azulejos have been in continuous use throughout the country. They are considered not merely a common decorative element, but are often described as something that defines Portuguese architecture.
Until the first local masters emerged in the mid-16th century, majolica tiles were imported to Portugal from Spain and the Low Countries. The oldest surviving local azulejo works date from the late 16th century (notably the Church of São Roque); their primitive figures and experimental quality make them particularly appealing. From the same period also come the first monumental compositions. However, since creating these was time-consuming and expensive, geometric motifs regained popularity for a time in covering the large wall surfaces of churches and monasteries. Initially, white and blue square tiles were arranged in a checkerboard-like, diagonal pattern (azulejo enxaquetado). Soon, these were replaced by horizontally laid multicoloured tiles forming more complex abstract shapes and patterns (enxaquetados ricos). Carpet-like compositions with intricate patterns and frames (azulejo de tapete) became widespread.
In the 17th century, the connection between azulejos and textile art, as well as the influence of Eastern motifs, came to the fore. It became fashionable to decorate church altarpieces in the manner of fabrics imported from India; the yellow frame tiles of altarpieces were often intended to imitate the golden edges of altar cloths. In the second half of the century, azulejo panels—drawing inspiration from Indian textiles—depicted birds, animals, and flowers (aves e ramagens, “birds and branches”). The influence of European painting was also evident. Mannerist-style floral depictions became widespread, and on friezes, following the example of Jan Brueghel the Elder, flower vases were depicted surrounded by birds, dolphins, or putti (albarrada).
In the second half of the 17th century, Delftware reached Portugal. White objects decorated with blue painting, popular in the Low Countries under the influence of Chinese porcelain, attracted Portuguese interest, and wealthy clients began commissioning large azulejo panels with historical scenes from workshops in Amsterdam. Around the turn of the century, blue-and-white figurative azulejos also began to be produced locally.
This marked the beginning of the golden age of Portuguese azulejo art—known as the “Cycle of the Masters” (Círculo dos Mestres)—which lasted until the mid-18th century. Dominant were large, hand-painted narrative compositions filled with exuberant Baroque motifs (João V style). Panels depicting life-sized figures intended to welcome guests (figuras de convite) appeared at house entrances, staircases, and courtyards. By the 1740s, with the spread of Rococo, more delicate panels with pastoral motifs became fashionable, with yellow emerging as the second principal colour alongside blue.
During this period, the mass production of azulejos also began, and they were exported to Portugal’s colony in Brazil. Many churches, monasteries, palaces, and private homes were adorned with azulejos, both inside and out. Before the 1755 earthquake—which brought the Cycle of the Masters to an end—multicoloured shell motifs dominated mass-produced tiles.
In the 20th century, the production of individual, standalone azulejo panels resumed. The importance of authorship became increasingly recognised, and figurative azulejos were moved into museums. The National Museum of the Azulejo in Lisbon offers an overview of the most important 20th-century azulejo artists. At the end of the century, decorating Lisbon metro stations with abstract azulejo panels sparked a revival and renewal of the art form.
May–July 2016