“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=”|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


  • 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.


Muga – Josep Estruch Traité 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