Berkley Center

The first two things that made me fall in love with Lisbon were the street art and the tiles, or azulejos. I’m not sure which I noticed first, but each day that I’ve spent here since then, I’ve noticed a growing duality reflected in the presence of both the street art and the tiles, sometimes adjacent, sometimes overlapping, sometimes staring at each other from across the street, simultaneously both cautious and curious.

The tiles come in every color and shape and geometric pattern imaginable. The classic ones are royal blue and white, often with fading paint colors, chips, and cracks that only add to their authenticity. They display floral designs, historical figures from the Portuguese empire, and ships, as well as other such naval imagery to celebrate the Portuguese seafaring tradition.

The street art stands as a bold contrast to the antiquity of the tiles, demanding attention with fresh paint, vibrant colors, bubble letters, and cartoon characters, although some portray more serious subjects, with the painting located right next to my school picturing an important revolutionary figure. Here, street art doesn’t seem to be an unwanted sort of graffiti. Oftentimes grandiose in scale, some stand dozens of feet high on an abandoned building’s crumbling façade.

Both the street art and the tiles are visible at every bus stop, and, at first, they were the signals I used to remember where to turn, stop, or hop off. As the bus speeds by, you can see the street art forming conspicuous, bold landmarks; from delivery vans, to large surface areas, everything is a canvas. The tiles form a more subtle welcome on the outside of storefronts and apartments alike, present if you choose to look for them.

They tell a story, and both have patterns and striking images that simply cannot be forgotten. Each was created by a resident of the city, whose story deserves to be told to others, whose art was a form of expression, a call for attention, a call to be heard, and above all, a call to be appreciated. The tiles came first, certainly, but the street artists whose masterpieces are featured at the docks and on dumpsters deserve attention, as well; because in the present Lisbon, they, too, have a claim on this city.

The Portuguese people are unique and remarkable. Immigrants from other Lusophone countries exist just outside this boundary, their toes dipped in the beautiful waters of the Tejo, as it empties into the Atlantic. Nearly everyone I’ve met has at least a minor connection to Mozambique, Cape Verde, Angola, or Brazil, but regardless of their origin, all of the Lusophone immigrants can speak of saudade and their favorite way to cook bacalhau. I’m not sure, yet, where the non-Lusophone residents exist in this schema, beyond frutarias, pastelerias, dollar stores, and kebab shops that are open all night. These small stores, too, all share the same fading tiles as the rest of the city on the walls outside; sometimes, though, they are obscured with a touch of street art spray-painted over these shops’ exterior.

I can’t tell which form of art complements the pastel-colored buildings and cobblestone streets more: the tiles, or the street art? I can tell that there is a duality in Lisbon. It is a society partially stuck in its past, while moving towards the future; handsome and humbly proud, as its tiles are, and multifaceted with a new influx of tongues and voices, as its street art is.