Muga

“Muga” i les seves variants “buga”, “boga” i “moga”, és un mot típic del català occidental, sobretot pirinenc, amb el significat de “molló, fita”, però més sovint també “límit, frontera entre dos termes”.

És compartit amb l’occità aranès sota la forma “mòga” i també amb l’aragonès, on trobem les formes “boga”, “buega”, “huega” i “güega”.

L’origen comú de les formes catalana, occitana i aragonesa és el basc “muga”, amb el mateix significat.

En català no n’hi ha documentació escrita fins al segle XX, tret d’unes referències mig aragoneses de Benasc del 1456. En aragonès es documenta la forma “boga” a Osca des del 1103.

En <a href=”http://dle.rae.es/?id=Q0rylYe|Q0t5mCZ” target=”_blank”>castellà és d’incorporació moderna</a>, com a basquisme o, més versemblantment, aragonesisme.

La Muga

El mot “muga” no té res a veure amb el riu de la Garrotxa i l’Alt Empordà conegut amb el nom de “la Muga”. El nom del riu prové d’un antic “Sambuca”, citat ja en un text de l’any 844: “…quod es situm in pago Bisildunense juxta rivo que dicunt Sambuga…”. És a dir, el nom del riu ja és documentat gairebé dos segles abans que qualsevol aparició del terme “muga”.

L’evolució del nom del riu és del tot natural. De l’original “Sambuga” va passar a “Samuga”. Aquí es va interpretar erròniament la primera síl·laba com si fos l’article català arcaic i es va separar en “sa Muga” i després es va canviar per l’article literari “la Muga”.

No està clar si l’origen “Sambuga” prové del llatí “sambucus” (saüc, saüquer) o bé d’un mot pre-romà de significat incert.

 

Badalona, 6 d’agost de 2017

Josep Estruch Traité


Bibliografia

  • Diccionari etimològic i complementari de la llengua catalana, Joan Coromines, Vol. II, pàg. 30, Vol. V, pàg. 827.
  • El parlar de la Vall d’Aran, Joan Coromines, pàg. 575
  • Diccionario critico etimológico castellano e hispánico, Joan Coromines, Vol. 1, pàg. 687.
  • Onomasticon Cataloniae, Joan Coromines, Vol. V, pàg. 417.

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Muga – Josep Estruch Traité 2017

 

Lugares remotos

Por Ramón Sarró.

Tal vez algunos lectores piensen, intuitivamente, que por lugar remoto me refiero a un lugar lejano. No exactamente: como nos enseñó Edwin Ardener, autor de un inspirado texto sobre las áreas remotas, la distancia y lo remoto son dos cosas distintas. Un lugar remoto, escribía el profesor de Oxford, no es un lugar que esté muy lejos, sino uno que no tiene continuidad con el lugar vivencial, con la Lebenswelt en que estamos instalados. Podríamos dividir los lugares del mundo en empíricos y remotos. Los primeros son los lugares en que estamos instalados o podríamos estarlo, que tienen continuidad con nuestro cuerpo, están a la izquierda, o a la derecha, o arriba, o abajo, o delante, o atrás. Son lugares en los que estamos, o por lo menos a los que podemos ir y que sabríamos buscar en un mapa.

(…) Lo remoto es aquello que ni siquiera sabríamos buscar en un mapa: Xanadú, la Atlantida, el Edén, el País de Nunca-Jamás, la Isla de las Aventuras. Utopía. Lo remoto es el mundo en el que no estamos instalados (ya no o todavía no), en el que soñamos y que tan importante es para nuestra existencia que a menudo nos parece como teniendo más fundamento que el mundo experimentado, pálido reflejo de lo remoto: “Buscas en Roma a Roma, ioh peregrino!, y en Roma misma a Roma no la hallas”, escribía Quevedo. Igualmente podríamos decirle al turista que vuelve decepcionado de su viaje a África que “Buscas en África a África, i oh turista!, y en África misma a África no la hallas”.

Ramon Sarró, es licenciado en Filosfía por la Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona y doctor en Antropología Social por la Universidad de Londres.

Lugares Remotos

Por Antoni Marí.

Los lugares remotos son lugares próximos y muy lejanos. La proximidad la proporciona el deseo, la distancia viene impuesta por la dificultad, o la imposibilidad, de la realización o del encuentro con este deseo. Los lugares remotos son lugares mentales construidos por la intuición y por la idea de que hay espacios, alejados del espacio cotidiano, en los que poder realizar la totalidad de la persona o habitar según la idea que cada uno se ha construido de la existencia, o el lugar donde aparece la posibilidad de otra existencia.

Es la imaginación la facultad capaz de identificar el deseo y la idea en la construcción de la imagen de los lugares remotos. Porque, por muy apartados y lejanos que estén, los lugares remotos aparecen con una imagen precisa, y a menudo, minuciosamente descrita ya sea en una imagen plástica o en una imagen verbal: por lo que los lugares remotos no son espacios desconocidos, si no abiertos al conocimiento y a ser hallados desde la necesidad que el deseo provoca. El lugar remoto ofrece, tal vez, la presencia real de lo desconocido, y lo desconocido es, sobre todo, aquello a lo que nunca se le puso atención y de repente aparece en toda su extrañeza y familiaridad.

El término español y catalán proviene del latín remotus que a su vez deriva de removere. El prefijo re expresa fundamentalmente repetición, inversión del significado del verbo primitivo o intensificación de la acción. Así, removere podría significar tanto un retorno como un remover o volver sobre lo mismo: significa, sobre todo, moverse o trasladarse; de tal modo que remoto supone idea de desplazamiento, un viaje de la realidad empírica a la realidad imaginada. El lugar remoto es una extensión del espacio real, sin las contingencias que impone la realidad y sin los hábitos frecuentes en esa realidad.

El término ha servido para situar un lugar a mucha distancia del sitio o del momento en que se está o de que se habla. Lo remoto remite a tiempos inmemoriales, de los que nadie tiene memoria, pues están mas allá de la historia y confunden las fronteras de lo lejano con lo mítico. Son los lugares que ocupan los protagonistas de los cuentos, las rondallas y canciones populares y que personalizan atributos compartibles entre tantos.

Antoni Marí, Ibiza, 1944. Catedrático de Teoría del Arte. Escritor y poeta.

Statement

The triumph of defeat

The denial of darkness and mortality is characteristic of our era. Surrounded by cracks and ruins, incapable of facing their fears, the somnolent ultraliberal humanity, through technological escalation, seeks refuge in consumerism and entertainment. For this reason, I decided to explore the distressing and tragic territories of denial and shadow through painting. Mass graves, beaten up violators, accidents, waste and dumps, police victims, destroyed effigies, refugees and mutants… my work is a compendium of demise, a collection of material and moral ruins. 
Therefore, in this context, (Un)refuges, my project on exile and uprooting, was conceived from the debris of a former concentration camp and speaks about memory and oblivion and the annihilation of human beings, their identity and their values.

Since then and up to very recently, I was convinced that the ruin was the main concept around which I had been building my imaginary. Not so long ago, I realised that in reality the ruin was not the ultimate goal in my research, but a means to light up the dark journey of defeat. 
Defeat here has two slants. The first is the tragic aspect: the historic defeat, and with it the political, moral and environmental defeats. In the private sphere, we can also include personal defeat, intrinsic to human existence. The individual’s defeat and their concatenation of surrenders takes us to the sublime slant of this journey, where the defeated is celebrated, a condition that requires the force of courage. Finally, at the peak of this itinerary is the defeat of the ego, the last stage of this journey and possibly the start of what will come next.

Apart from some forays into the world of photography, collage, installation and video, my experience is mainly in the field of painting. I find pictorial language an ideal tool for managing emotions without overlooking intellect. The traditional, almost archetypical, visual codes of oil painting allow me to pry open the conscience of the viewer, as a pivot between omen and mourning. In this temporary distortion, post-apocalyptic scenes, ruins from the past, hints of future disasters and memories of tragedies merge together and intertwine forming a cyclical genealogy of the catastrophe, in the centre of which is the viewer, alone facing their mortality.

Marco Noris, January 2017

It wasn’t the sun

It wasn’t the sun

By Federic Montornés

Sometimes, it is sufficient to add something to an image so that what we perceive as a landscape is converted into a scenario and not in the portrayal of the illusion of the observer. Therefore, to speak about a scale in relation to a landscape would be like talking about the distance that separates the viewer from the image. And to speak about the distance between the viewer and what they see would be to speak about intrusion in a never-ending story.

Because there is no end to painting. And yet, it invites you to take a closer look.

Marco Noris says that for him, painting – particularly oil painting – is the language that best enables him to engage in emotions without overlooking intellect. He also says that it is the language that, thanks to its traditional visual codes, lets him pry open the conscience of the viewer, as a pivot between omen and mourning. A temporary distortion, he goes on to say, with post-apocalyptic scenes, ruins from the past, hints of future disasters and memories of tragedies that merge together and intertwine forming a kind of genealogy of the catastrophe. A study of the future of the human race which, far from nostalgic grieving celebrations, it speaks about the personal and collective journey of acceptance and atonement, in the centre of which is always the individual who is not in charge of their destiny: the viewer. Alone. Facing their mortality.

Or as Noris calls it: the triumph of defeat.

Focusing on the desire to insinuate rather than on the desire to describe what, in the eyes of the observer, opens up as an exercise of introspection based on arguments as broad, as meaningful and as reflexive as memory, oblivion, absence and expectation, Noris’ work is a type of balsam which, invoking a more than necessary suspension of time, allows anything to happen because in this work everything is eternal, extended, expected and abandoned. It is a decision which, placing the observer on the margin of the bustle and noise, permits a connection to be made with the part of the individual that wonders what is behind the narrow reality that we can see as he knows that this is what is blinding us from what we really need to explore.

Beyond the veil covering our eyes, we can find out why we are all here.

The exhibition “No era el sol” [It wasn’t the sun] shows numerous pieces of Noris’ work developed around the disappearance in the mass graves, the cruelty of borders, the civil war, and exile and uprooting; it also presents environmental matters – used as metaphors for both our material and moral ruins – and interpretations at a more introspective level, all of which are employed as a first and unavoidable step towards accepting denial and shadow to deal with the escalation in technology, excessive consumption and entertainment that obstruct our vision. It is a type of conceptual manhole conceived not so much as to end with the human species but to show that following what appeared to be the sun did not come a night of rest but the desire to find a light beyond impatience. In other words, beyond ourselves. This is why, rather than a journey to the exterior and through territories of which everything is constructed, Noris proposes a journey into the interior of each individual along the path of his brushstrokes in oil, the surface of canvases, layers and layers of discarded cardboard, the dimensions of a painting and the steps that we should follow to tear away from this wretched world, to recover the essence of the human being, become aware of our identity, revive our values and see it all from the distance that allows us to understand painting, his painting, also as a matter of scale.

Frederic Montornés
February 2017

Marco Noris, placeless places

Remote Locations is the title of a series of paintings by Marco Noris, but the term could be extended to his work as a whole. If by ‘remote’ we understand somewhere that is inaccessible not through physical distance, but rather because it responds to some mental or psychological geography, then all Noris’s projects could be said to be journeys to nowhere.

Ephemeral Informalism is determined by the chance colours of paint splashed from the brushes that Marco and the other artists who share the studio clean at a communal tap. A puddle begins to form around it, an iridescent crucible where a riot of changing colours pools. The wet surface becomes a canvas, acting as a mirror that both reflects and inverts the creative space, absorbing in its water the residue of the creative process, condensing its volatile beauty. In this tiny, precarious swamp Noris gives form to the impalpable synergies of art and sees in it the confluence of individual exploration and social space.

Foucault talks of such inversions when he defines the mirror or reflective surface as a paradigm of the utopian place (“a placeless place”: “I see myself where I am not”) but also heterotopian, a term he coined to describe “enacted utopias”. Heterotopias are real places which allow representation, inversion and questioning of other places.

Noris’s work navigates between utopia and heterotopia too, with Remote Locations  being an example of the former, images that seem mirages because of the fleeting nature of the ever-changing, never-completed shapes. And Postcards from Eternity evokes “placeless places”, like floating fragments or messages in bottles that bob about on the waves without any hope of reaching safe port. On the other hand, the work dedicated to the refugee camps corresponds to what Foucault called “heterotopias of deviation”, where anything that deviates from the social norm is placed. In Noris’s artistic process such places are also stripped of their historical context and become remote, caught up in the shifting flux of shared memory.

Anna Adell – Translation: Geraldine Mitchell

Artist Statement | In ruins

2015: In ruins

My research stems from the cracks of a world that is in ruins and it travels along a dense maze of paths among debris and neglect. Beaten up violators, accidents, waste and dumps; police victims, destroyed effigies, fugitives and mutants… My work is a record of subsidence, a compendium of material and moral ruins. In this context, my work is developed on refugees and exiles, a project that is based on the remains of a concentration camp and talks about absence, memory and oblivion, and of the annihilation of human beings, their identity and their values.

Apart from some forays into the world of photography, collage, installation and video, my experience is mainly in the field of painting, a discipline that allows me more direct, visceral work. I use the traditional, almost archetypical, visual style of oil painting to pry open the conscience of the viewer, as a pivot between omen and mourning. In this temporary distortion, post-apocalyptic scenarios, ruins from the past, hints of future disasters and memories of tragedies merge together and intertwine forming a cyclical genealogy of the catastrophe.

In this dialogue of light and shadow between the past and the present, the contemporaneity of my work is defined, my response to the darkness of the now. My research on the past is the shadow of my uncertainty of the present, concerned about the fragility of our system and the vulnerability of humanity that is sent blindly into the triumphant sirens of progress.