The Colorful History of Lisbon’s Azulejo Tiles

At the top of a severely steep, snaking street in Lisbon’s Príncipe Real neighborhood, where tourists pose for pictures beside the sunflower-yellow funicular, there’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it artwork on the wall that symbolizes a centuries-old Portuguese craft.

The bright blue quartet of ceramic tiles at the top of Calçada da Glória, showing a digitally printed female face adorned with intricate patterns, is the work of French artist Bastien Tomasini, aka O Gringo. “Two years ago, nobody knew him,” says architect and tour guide Tiago Neiva as we stroll away from the funicular up the main thoroughfare of Príncipe Real. “Last time I was in the Tile Museum, he had a solo exhibition.”

We duck into Solar Antiques — a seemingly small shop I’ve walked past countless times — and I’m astonished to find a huge collection of fascinating objects spread over a series of inner rooms. We descend into the low-ceilinged basement, where thick stone walls block out the buzz of Monday morning traffic and a treasure trove of tiles, called azulejos in Portuguese, awaits.

Azulejos, both historic and contemporary, are an integral part of Lisbon’s urban fabric.

Vinitaa Jayson

Holding a chunky rectangular 16th-century tile decorated with a cornflower blue floral motif alongside swirls of brown and mustard yellow, Neiva — who runs the City of Azulejos tour — explains how King Manuel I was responsible for bringing what was originally a Moorish tradition to Portugal.

“We are talking about the heyday of the Age of Discovery, the time of Columbus and Vasco da Gama. On one of King Manuel’s visits to southern Spain, he saw places like the Alhambra and the Alcázar Palace in Seville, and he fell in love. He said, 'I want to have that,' and he ordered thousands of tiles to be brought to Lisbon.”

Overhauling the National Palace of Sintra, the royal residence that sits on a hilltop on the outskirts of Lisbon, the monarch blanketed the palace walls with imported azulejos symbolizing Portugal’s maritime achievements. Visitors can still see these opulent tiled rooms today. Following the king’s lead, the clergy and upper echelons of society began to commission tiles from Spain to decorate the interiors of churches and palaces with ornamental panels.

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Only five pigments were available at that time. White, blue, green, yellow, and purplish-brown were derived from metal oxides that could withstand the 1,000-degree heat required to fire the clay. On the topic of color, if you’re wondering whether azulejo comes from the Spanish azul, meaning blue, that’s just a coincidence. It actually comes from an Arabic term meaning "polished stone." Cobalt blue and white tiles rose to prominence long after the tiles were invented, thanks to the influence of the Dutch painters of Delft, who were, in turn, inspired by Chinese pottery.

To see a stunning early example of religious azulejos in the heart of Lisbon, head to Igreja de São Roque. Constructed in 1590, the Catholic church features exquisite golden altars flanked by symmetrical panels with vivid emerald, yellow, and cobalt designs, in distinct contrast with the neoclassical blue-and-white motifs seen in other parts of the chapel.

The Palace of Sintra, former residence of Portugal’s rulers, was one of the first major buildings to adopt azulejos as a decorative element, leading the way for what would become a globally recognized tradition.

Petr Tran

Ceramic factories began producing azulejos in Lisbon in the mid-16th century, but it wasn’t until the devastating earthquake of 1755 that tiles migrated from the interiors of buildings to the facades.

The first instances consisted of clusters of blue-and-white tiles painted with images of saints, intended to protect homes from natural disasters. You can still spy them on buildings today, usually positioned over doorways. The Marquis of Pombal, famed for rebuilding the decimated city, is credited with kickstarting the 17th-century azulejo boom known as the Cycle of Masters. “He ordered that all the small ceramic workshops get together in one place and start a large production of tiles with specific patterns using the classic technique of majolica, hand-painted tiles,” explains Dora Fernandes, curator at the National Tile Museum, when we meet in the museum’s bustling café.

It would take another 100 years and the development of pigments that could survive colossal kiln temperatures before the technicolor, tile-covered facades we now associate with the Portuguese capital would start to pop up throughout the city.

Continuing my urban tile tour, I take the metro to Intendente, where the historic Viúva Lamego ceramic factory opened in 1849. The factory has now relocated to Sintra, but the breathtaking original facade remains. Painted by iconic painter and ceramic artist Luís António Ferreira, the colorful frontage is adorned with oriental-style figures, exotic animals, and exuberant floral flourishes.

“It’s a very interesting facade because, apart from being beautiful, it was also a way to communicate and showcase what Viúva Lamego was doing,” says marketing manager Catarina Cardoso when I visit the company’s current HQ. The revered painter’s other masterpiece is the Casa do Ferreira das Tabuletas (literally “the house of the blacksmith of tablets,” as Ferreira was known) in Chiado. The four-story townhouse was commissioned by Freemason and capitalist Manuel Moreira Garcia, which is why the facade includes Masonic symbols alongside trompe l’oeil depictions of six allegorical figures: earth, water, commerce, industry, science, and agriculture.

Around the same time Luís António Ferreira was making his mark on the city with elaborate facades, the development of industrial production techniques meant the cost of tiles dropped, and the proliferation of brightly colored repeating patterns covering entire buildings began. Viúva Lamego is the subject of the latest exhibition at the National Tile Museum, marking the firm’s 175th anniversary and celebrating its work with renowned artists from all over the world.

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“In the 1930s, there was a big change when the factory began to collaborate with artists and open ateliers for them to use. These are still very active today,” Cardoso explains. An icon of ceramic art, Manuel Cargaleiro, who died in June this year, began working with Viúva Lamego in 1948, heralding the start of the modern azulejo art period. “Maria Keil and Querubim Lapa, who were responsible for many of the public art projects done in Lisbon, are the other big names,” Cardoso says. “Ninety percent of the metro stations in Lisbon are lined with tiles made in Viúva Lamego.”

Lisbon’s Museu Nacional do Azulejo (National Tile Museum), housed in the Madre de Deus Convent, traces the history and development of Portugal’s famous decorative tiles.

Nigel Jarvis

Maria Keil was given 10 stations to decorate when the first sections of the Lisbon underground were built in 1959. For a three-stop tour of the artist’s diverse subterranean works, hop on the aptly named Linha Azul (blue line). Start by perusing the blankets of cobalt tiles peppered with poetry at Parque station, followed by the foliage-themed designs at São Sebastião, and finish with the graphic optical illusion tiles at Praça da Espanha.

While the metro network expanded and a host of artists were enlisted to continue the azulejo tradition, home decor enthusiasts of the time weren’t so keen. “Everyone in the ’60s and ’70s wanted to take the tiles out and put some bright colors in, and take the old floors out and put in some fluffy carpets,” says Hugo Cardoso, head of sales at Solar Antiques. The tides have turned once more, however, and now the latest generation of urban art stars are giving azulejos a new lease on life.

“We are experiencing nowadays a very interesting phenomenon,” says Fernandes, “Tiles always had a major role in Portuguese art history, with no interruption at all over five centuries, but a few decades ago they were considered something kitsch. Now, more recently, tiles have become very popular among contemporary artists, even urban artists. It’s a living art form.”

Over time, the azulejo tradition has been reinterpreted and reimagined. Only in recent years, however, Lisbon’s tiles have become a popular medium for contemporary artists.

Pavel Arzhakov

From official commissions to unsanctioned street installations, the likes of Mr. A, Vhils, Add Fuel, and the aforementioned O Gringo are pushing the aesthetic envelope while paying homage to Portuguese heritage — and gaining legions of fans at the same time. At Campo de Santa Clara in the Graça neighborhood, the old and new sit side by side, with the classic blue-and-white religious depictions inside São Vicente de Fora monastery a stone's throw from the huge 2016 cityscape mural by Swedish artist André Saraiva, aka Mr. A.

That’s the beauty of Lisbon: there’s art around every corner. And thanks to the current crop of azulejo aficionados, the city’s great tile tapestry will continue to grow.