As it turns out, among the dust and accumulation of long-forgotten things, the dark glass was, is, an early photographic negative. But this isn’t any old negative, or for that matter, any old photographer. This, though Cecília had no idea what it was, or who it belonged to in that moment, was the work of one José Bárcia.
Scanning the object, digitally that is, an image emerged out of the aged grime, which you can now see – among many others – in a new book: Os Dias de José Bárcia – A coleção fotográfica de Quinta do Anjo, Palmela e Setúbal (1895-1917).
Cecília, essentially a graphic designer, who I first met when she was attempting to solve another historical mystery, seems to like a bit of sleuthing, which appears to bring about delightful artefacts like this book, for the enjoyment of Portuguese history and culture lovers, like me.
The dark glass is now, some years later, a clear window into the past that also brings in a certain Júlio de Castilho, who Cecilia describes as “the father of Lisbon history, more or less”. Castilho needed pictures to illustrate his celebrated books, and our man Bárcia, who was clever with both a camera and a paintbrush, became his ‘go-to guy’.
It turns out Bárcia had an aunt who taught in Quinta do Anjo, near Palmela, which happens to be Cecília’s own familial village. Whenever he could, in the turbulent run-up to the 1910 revolution (an anniversary we have just acknowledged), José slipped away from a capital on the brink of toppling a monarchy and took his camera to this quiet village, photographing life there, now immortalised in Cecília’s book.
During the pandemic, when many of us were discovering and developing new strings for our bows, Cecília began collecting those photographs, and with the support of the Câmara Municipal de Palmela, she turned them into the bound collection that showcases and preserves this delightful part of Portugal and its history.
Thanks to her, and her parents’ laying aside of the early photographic tech, we can now marvel at a smartly dressed excursion to what Cecília calls the most beautiful beach in Setúbal, on donkeys of course, with the intrepid party sporting what look like woollen suits, elaborate hats and parasols. The attention to detail and sheer volume of provisions is as evident then as it seems to be now when you see picnicking Portuguese at the beach or ‘parque de merendas’.
See also Palmela in the early 1900s, looking like a ghost town, as it lost its importance, it would seem, with Setúbal growing, according to our friendly neighbourhood archivist, so vigorously at the time. Contemporary locals might recognise the Largo de São João, the main square, and may be surprised about this previous downturn in popularity, considering the town’s vibrance now.
In the kitchen scene, a woman holds a pot lid in her lap while a little lad peers in to see what’s for dinner. Confidently announcing that the things hanging from the ceiling were tomatoes when Cecília offered me a private view, I was corrected. These were onions, ready for the pot, to add flavour to a locally-caught rabbit perhaps?
In the formal family arrangement, we can marvel at how Cecília found her own ancestors in her forensic, photographic adventure, seeing here her great-great-grandfather flanked by a great-aunt and a great-great-grandmother (but she can’t say which is which, because they look so alike!). Adding a poignancy to the family history is the fact that her great-aunt would later die of the Spanish flu.
Bárcia sold prints in Lisbon in a postcard style, the kind you might see wandering through a present-day flea or collectibles market, with idyllic countryside scenes that must have been quite normal views in their day, though a kind of magic in terms of technology, as were his slide shows that were candle-powered, I understand.
These days, we point our camera at anything that takes our fancy. A decade or two ago, we might have had to wait a few days for our photographs to be developed at the chemists. In Bárcia’s day, it must have seemed like witchcraft when he rocked up on horseback with your image rendered on a strange-smelling paper or flickering on a white-washed wall.
Cecília, having started with one piece of dark glass, was later spoilt for choice, discovering another collection when the book was nearly finished – the pictures Bárcia kept for himself in his last house. They were, she says, photos that we might take on vacation now, except with ladies in big skirts and not all that exposed flesh of our liberated times. Choosing what to leave out has been her challenge, and perhaps the opportunity for further books for hungry history buffs. I hope so.
Just as I spoke last week of my re-found joy in reading, derailed by schooling, so too returns a growing love for history, thanks to the passion and patience of people like Cecília. My favourite detail from our enthralling conversation was hearing about how Cecilia tracked people down who were young at the time these remarkable images were captured. Some remembered Bárcia’s magical visits and their stories are in the book, which you can buy via her website – cecilia-designs.com
Photos courtesy of Cecília Matos
Read Carl Munson’s previous article: An expat book club? Yes, but for recovering readers.