Sunday, November 11, 2018

Photograph Your Art Like a Pro

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How to Photograph Your Art Like a Professional

How to Photograph Your Art Like a Professional
Image via
Artists, let’s face it: your artwork is more likely to be seen in photographs than in real life. The internet allows us to share images of work to massive audiences online—audiences that might not have the chance to see your work in person, whether it’s in a major gallery exhibition or inside your studio. So, how you photograph your work really, reallymatters. If you’re trying to woo onlookers (and potential collectors, curators, jurors, panelists, etc.), then snapping quick pics with you iPhone likely isn’t going to cut it. But professional photographers can cost hundreds of dollars to hire—not an option for all, or probably most, artists.
If you’re taking the DIY approach to documenting your art, you’re best off procuring a digital single-lens reflex (DSLR) camera if you can. If you’re a student, you should be able to rent one out from the a/v department at your school. If you’re not, ask around to see if any of your friends have one you can borrow. Otherwise, local equipment rental companies typically offer daily rentals.
Once you’ve got your DSLR, follow the guidelines we outline below. Though you’d likely need years behind the lens to master digital photography, there are some quick tips—specifically tailored to document art—that will greatly increase your chances getting that perfect shot. 

Outside vs Inside
Cloudy, overcast days provide the most ideal light for photographing a single art work. Clouds basically act like diffusers for sunlight, meaning your work won’t reflect any harsh light, or accept any pesky shadows. We recommend buying a sheet of drywall at your local hardware store and using that as your background—whether you're shooting a sculpture resting on its surface, or hanging a wall piece.
But shooting outside isn’t always an option. Weather is the most obvious issue to worry about, but you might also need to consider how many artworks you’re hoping to document. If you have eight, then each piece will be slightly differently lit, since you’ll likely be shooting the last piece minutes or even hours after you’ve shot the first one.
So, while photographing outdoors may be recommended by most professional photographers, it’s likely not practiced often by many of them. Read on for tips on how to light your work indoors.

Indoor Lighting 101
The first thing you need to do is make sure your work isn’t under multiple light sources—whether natural or artificial. No matter what type of bulbs you’re using to light your work, it’s imperative that every single light source (if there are more than one) have the exact same temperature, which is measured in Degrees Kelvin and ranges from Soft White (2700K – 3000K), Bright White/Cool White (3500K – 4100K), and Daylight (5000K – 6500K).
In laymen's terms, all you really need to know is that each bulb you use should be the same temperature. To make sure that natural light isn’t seeping into your frame from a nearby window or skylight, make sure to either shoot at night after the sun has completely set or cover your windows with opaque black-out material.
There are a seemingly infinite number of ways that you can light an artwork, but we’ll describe a couple, starting with the easiest: just use whatever overhead lighting you have in your studio. Rather than thinking about how to bring light over to your work, bring your work over to the best-lit wall. When documenting multiple wall works, photographers will often set up their camera and their lighting just once—and then use the same nail (or screw, etc) to hang each artwork, one after another. In other words, keep the camera in a static position, and all hang your pieces in the same place. This way, you know the lighting will be the same on every single one, and you won’t waste time setting up your camera for each artwork you’re shooting. 
Another way to shoot your work is to place two lights (each with the same type of bulb—a “cool” household 100-watt bulb will suffice) on either side of your camera, facing the work at 45-degree angles. Rather than shining the light directly on the piece, diffuse the light to make it softer and more evenly lit. They make diffusers and umbrellas specifically for photography, but you can also just cover your light with a translucent plastic bag. (Just make sure it doesn’t melt or catch on fire!) If you’re photographing a flat surface, make sure that each bulb is the same wattage, and that they’re both equidistant from the wall. But if you’re shooting an artwork with texture, make the light source on one side a bit stronger—either by moving the light closer to the wall, or by using a higher-wattage bulb. This way, a slight shadow will be cast on one side, allowing textural detail to stand out. Oh, and remember to turn the flash off on your camera!

Adjusting White Balance
Most cameras will, by default, adjust white balance settings automatically. White balance settings control the “temperature” of your image. Ideally, you want a neutral temperature in which white parts of the image (like a white background) are actually white—not yellow or blue. When you’re camera is set to adjust white balance automatically, the settings will change depending on where you’re pointing your lens. If you’re shooting multiple works in different areas of the room, leaving your camera on auto-white balance will probably result in each image having a slightly different hue. So, it’s best to manually set your camera to stay on one particular white balance setting.
Often cameras will have preset settings like “cloudy,” “sunny,” “fluorescent,” “tungsten,” etc. Just pick whichever setting accurately describes the light source you’re using. On that setting, your images should look as neutral as possible. If they aren’t perfect, you can at least adjust them in a photo-editing software afterwords—which will be a heck of a lot easier if they’re all shot using identical white balance settings.

Tripod Tricks
Use a tripod. Don’t have one? Set your camera on a table or a stack of books—anything that gives your camera stability. But here’s another, less obvious trick: No matter what, put your camera on timer mode when you’re ready to take the shot. Even the slightest jostle from your finger touching the shutter release button could cause vibrations—and thus blurry photos. Most cameras have the option for a 10-second shutter delay (typically used to allow for “selfies”). Use it.
Secondly, make sure that the camera is positioned directly in the center of the work, and not titled or pointed up or down or side to side. You want to the lens to be perfectly parallel with the wall you are shooting, or the perspective will make your rectangle look more like a trapezoid. 

You’ll want to take your photographs in the highest resolution possible, for the clearest image. To do this, make sure the camera you’re using isn’t set to a mode that sacrifices image quality or size. If there is a “fine” option for image quality, pick that. And, don’t waste pixels by shooting from too far away from your piece. Fill the viewfinder with the piece, with a little wall space around the edges, so that the piece itself is made up of as many pixels as possible—and thus able to show the most detail. Once you have your files on your computer, you can save them at different sizes or resolutions so that they’re easier to email or upload. But always keep your original file with the highest resolution as the master file.

A Trick for Reflective Art
Ideally, the work you’re shooting isn’t behind glass. (Document it before you frame it!) But if it is, then you’re undoubtedly going to be fighting glare. Here’s a trick: grab a black or dark-colored sheet and hang it right in front of the camera. Cut a small hole to allow the lens to poke through. Voilà! No glare!

Exposure Blending
The human eye sees a much richer world, with bright lights and rich darks, than a camera lens sees. So, if you’re shooting something that has a huge contrast in values, you might have trouble capturing both in the same image. This problem might be most pronounced when say, you’re trying to document an exhibition with a video piece in it. The screen is so bright that your image either ends up looking like it’s really, really dark in the room but the video is visible, or the room looks normal but the video image is completely white. There’s a solution to this problem. But it’s not exactly uncomplicated.
Here are the basics: If you take multiple photographs with slightly different exposure settings, you’ll be able to blend them all together later on using editing software, in order to keep the best parts of each image. (Just remember not to move the camera in between shots!) There are many, many ways to blend the images together, so instead of going through each one, check out this very thorough guide.

Caravaggio’s Mark of Madness



Caravaggio’s Mark of Madness

Caravaggio may have eluded a death sentence by fleeing to Malta and Sicily, but in the end there was nowhere to run.
Caravaggio, “The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist” (1607–1608), oil on canvas, 361 x 520 cm, Saint John’s Co-Cathedral, Valletta, Malta (image credit: Caravaggio [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
VALETTA, Malta — A street fight broke out in the Roman night of May 28th, 1606; weapons were drawn, and Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio’s sword sliced through the thigh of a young pimp named Ranuccio Tomassoni, severing the artery. Caravaggio ran off with a grievous head wound, and Tomassoni bled to death. That’s as much as anyone can agree on.
Whether the fight arose over a trivial bet on a tennis match, sparked by years of bad blood, or whether Caravaggio’s cut to Tomassoni’s leg was meant to humiliate and not kill, or whether the blade was aimed at the groin as a symbolic (or even attempted) castration, the result was the same: the bando capitale, a sentence handed down by the Borghese pope, Paul V (the notorious persecutor of Galileo), granting license to anyone in the papal territories to kill the painter and present his decapitated head as proof that justice was done.
A few days later, Caravaggio fled Rome, with rumors of appearances in Florence, Modena, and the Lazio town of Paliano. Within four months he had arrived in Naples, and by July 1607, he was living in Valetta on the island fortress of Malta, where he sought the protection of the Knights of the Brotherhood of Saint John, with the hope of being admitted to their Order and thus obtaining a papal pardon.
As usual with Caravaggio, the history is murky, but some believe that the artist’s largest work — “The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist” (1607–1608), which is installed, now as it was then, in the oratory of the city’s Cathedral of Saint John — was painted as a form of passagio, the not-inconsiderable admission fee paid to the Knights by applicants to the Order.
Whatever the machination, on July 14th, 1608, Caravaggio succeeded in joining the non-celibate Knights of Obedience. As a point of pride, he added the letter “f” for “fra” (“brother”) before his name at the bottom center of the canvas — tellingly, the only signature of his career — painted as if it were formed by the pool of the Baptist’s blood.
It was in front of this painting that the Knights gathered on December 1st, less than five months after his induction, to expel the artist from the Order — like a “putrid and fetid limb,” as every biography will tell you — following his audacious escape from the impregnable Fort Saint Angelo, where he had been thrown into a bell-shaped dungeon for assaulting (in some accounts, shooting) a fellow Knight.
Caravaggio, “Adoration of the Shepherds” (1609), oil on canvas, 314 x 211 cm, Museo Regionale, Messina, Sicily (image via Web Gallery of Art)
The artist resurfaced in Siracusa, Sicily, where he was promptly commissioned to paint “The Burial of Saint Lucy” (1608) for the city’s newly refurbished Church of Santa Lucia alla Badia. He later traveled to Messina, where he completed two other major commissions, “The Raising of Lazarus” and “The Adoration of the Shepherds” (both 1609).
These four paintings, along with “Saint Jerome Writing” (c.1607–1608), which hangs opposite “The Beheading of Saint John” in the oratory of Valetta’s cathedral, are the only Caravaggios to be found on permanent view in Sicily and Malta (a sixth canvas, “Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence,” c.1600-1609, was stolen from Palermo’s Oratory of San Lorenzo in 1969).
Together they form a time capsule of the artist’s life during a period of relative (and the operative word is relative) calm between his tumultuous sojourns in Naples. Within a year of finishing his last commission in Messina, Caravaggio was dead.
The paintings of Saint Jerome and of the Adoration are pierced by crystalline beams of light, freeing their figures from the surrounding darkness, while the actors in the other three, depicting by turns a murder, a burial, and a resurrection, seem to be losing their battle with the shadows.
“The Raising of Lazarus” and “The Adoration of the Shepherds,” hanging on adjacent walls in their own darkened gallery in Messina’s Museo Regionale, are both exercises in diagonals, one ascending and the other descending, but both ostensibly terminating in signs of hope.
In “The Adoration,” the ragtag group of shepherds stand, sit, and kneel in a downward-slanting line from right to left, in veneration of the Christ Child, cradled by a reclining Mary. This straightforward movement, reflecting the imagery’s straightforward sentiment, makes it the less interesting of the two paintings, despite the solidity and brilliance of its forms.
Caravaggio, “The Raising of Lazarus” (1609), oil on canvas, 380 x 275 cm, Museo Regionale, Messina (image credit: Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
“Lazarus” is also anchored by a right-to-left diagonal in the form of the rigid, eponymous, nearly naked corpse, but its movement is offset by a countervailing directional from left to right. In contrast to the single element of the dead body, this diagonal is fragmented into a welter of details: the faces and bodies of gawkers jostling for a glimpse of the exhumed body or turning toward the figure of Christ, who raises his arm to point a finger at Lazarus — in a mirror image of the pointing finger in the artist’s “Calling of Saint Matthew” (1599–1600) — commanding him to return to life.
This is where complications set in, thanks to the ambiguities implicit in the shadows. The murkiness (and this is a particularly darkened painting) all but swallows Jesus, whose head, sans halo, is cast in complete darkness, a seemingly heretical reversal of Christ’s own words: “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.” (KJV, John 8:12).
But that is hardly as disturbing as the treatment Caravaggio accords Lazarus, whose left arm is apparently stiffened with rigor mortis, and perhaps the right arm, too, even if such an interpretation would fly in the face of the work’s premise. Caravaggio was suspected of being a nonbeliever, and this painting could supply ample evidence to the charge.
The uplifted right arm — the only sign that Lazarus is alive — sets the body into a cruciform pose, presaging Jesus’s own death and resurrection, but it is barely visible on the canvas, sinking into the empty, abysmal darkness that makes up the upper half of the painting. The only glimmer of light to reach it, coming from an off-frame source rather than the personage of Christ, shimmers like a wispy flame across Lazarus’s palm as his head lolls backward into blackness, clearly dead.
A conventional interpretation would suggest that the spirit reanimating the hand will spread to the rest of the body, suffusing it with life. But all we see is a fragile ray of light that may be on the edge of flickering out. The atmospherics around the pallid corpse are revealing; while the statuesque form of Christ reads as a pillar of calm, the expressions of those around him betray only fear, confusion, and sorrow.
If the finality of death is hedged, slightly, in “The Raising of Lazarus,” it feels absolute in “The Burial of Saint Lucy” and “The Beheading of Saint John,” with escalating degrees of horror.
Caravaggio, “The Burial of Saint Lucy” (1608), oil on canvas, 408 x 300 cm, Church of Santa Lucia alla Badia, Siracusa, Sicily (image credit: Caravaggio [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
The composition of “The Burial of Saint Lucy” is particularly perverse. The two most prominent elements are the profane gravediggers looming on either side of the canvas, framing the indecorously prone body of the saint, who was tortured and martyred in Siracusa because she wouldn’t submit to a Roman patrician’s desire. It is said that Caravaggio repainted Lucy’s neck, which he had initially depicted as visibly detached from her body, because his patron found the imagery too brutal. The neck is now intact, with a discreet sword slice on the side, but it consequently looks awkwardly distended.
The narrative thrust of the painting arises from the gravedigger on the left, who lifts his head from his task to witness a mitered bishop, jammed into the right edge of the canvas, blessing the corpse. The regret passing over his face indicates that he has embarked on the path to redemption, like the Good Thief executed with Jesus on Golgotha, while his unperturbed companion puts his shoulder into the job.
The irony is that the unheeding worker is the more powerfully rendered. His shorn pate, bent at a 90-degree angle, echoes the head of the dead saint, while his back seems to bear the oppressive weight of the blank wall above him, a thuggish Atlas holding up the void. His position in the painting, with his left foot planted on the bottom edge, is commanding, as if his spade, and not the bishop’s benediction, were the final arbiter of Lucy’s eternal fate.
“The Beheading of Saint John” is chronologically the first of the three paintings described in detail here (“Lazarus” is the last), but it is by far the grimmest. Caravaggio, over the course of his career, painted every manner of decapitation, most spectacularly in his pyrotechnic masterwork “Judith Beheading Holofernes” (c.1598-1599), where we witness the act in progress at the peak of its violence. Elsewhere, heads are held aloft, knocked to the dirt, presented on a silver platter, and, in the case of Medusa, mounted on a shield. But nowhere else do we anticipate a decapitation before it happens, as we do here.
Saint John, like Saint Lucy, lies on the ground, but this time it is an executioner, and not a gravedigger, who commands our attention. The Baptist’s nearly naked body is draped across the hips by a long red cloth, as the edge of his camel hair cloak slips down beneath. A jet of blood spews from the same jugular wound inflicted on Saint Lucy’s neck. The pool below it, as mentioned above, forms the artist’s name.
The executioner, straddling the body, bends forward in a posture similar to Lucy’s gravedigger. In one of the more chilling gestures in Western art, he reaches behind his back to pull a dagger from its sheath. In this unvarnished vision of the Baptist’s death, decapitation is not delivered swiftly on a chopping block. Rather, the killer will use a short blade, slowly and roughly, to saw through bone, muscle, and nerves.
In light of the bando capitale Caravaggio sought to escape when he fled to Malta, this grotesque detail can be seen as the artist’s contemplation of how his own life could have ended if he had not become a fra, an interpretation underscored by his signature in John’s blood. And it ironically foreshadows a harrowing incident that befell him after his return to Naples from Messina, when he was ambushed at a tavern door by persons unknown (quite possibly a band of vengeful Knights), who slashed his face until he was unrecognizable.
Ultimately, for Caravaggio, there was nowhere to run. As Francine Prose speculates in her short, beautifully written biography of the painter: “Perhaps he made new enemies everywhere he went, everyplace, as Susinno [the 18th-century biographer] said, he stamped with the mark of his madness.”
There is good reason to conclude that Caravaggio was a special brand of sociopath, or else a merciless truth teller with one foot in the dark side, but his madness did not flourish in a vacuum.
Like Pier Paolo Pasolini, whose violent death reflected the brutality of his vision, Caravaggio’s eye was as cold as the world he lived in, where fate is indifferent to virtue and innocence is routinely sacrificed on the altar of greed, lust, and raw power. It’s what makes him our own.

Monday, November 5, 2018

A Selfie-Taking Girl Squad Knocks Over an Entire Wall of Artworks at a Russian Museum

quando é que acabam estas cenas???!!!

Art Industry News: A Selfie-Taking Girl Squad Knocks Over an Entire Wall of Artworks at a Russian Museum

A woman takes a selfie by a bust at the Ryazan art museum on this year's Museum Selfie Day. (Photo by Alexander RyuminTASS via Getty Images)

Selfie-Taking Visitors Damage Goya and Dalí Works – A group of four girls taking selfies damaged works by Salvador Dalí and Francisco Goya at a Russian museum. The selfie-takers knocked down a temporary wall, shattering the glass on both frames and causing damage to the Dalí work. The scene was captured on security cameras. This isn’t the first (or even the second) time a selfie-taking visitor has caused damage to a work of art. We’re mostly surprised anyone would want to take a selfie with a Goya work—that stuff is not exactly photogenic!

Sunday, November 4, 2018

Cuando los portugueses asombraban al mundo

Cuando los portugueses asombraban al mundo con sus barcos, cañones y ferocidad

El historiador Roger Crowley desvela en ‘El mar sin fin’ la extraordinaria aventura lusa en el océano Índico

Llegada de Vasco de Gama a Calicut, en una imagen de época.
Llegada de Vasco de Gama a Calicut, en una imagen de época.
Hubo una época en que los portugueses se convirtieron en el asombro del mundo. El pequeño país en el rincón de Europa se lanzó a finales del siglo XV a una extraordinaria aventura naval que llevó a sus barcos y expedicionarios a traspasar los límites del mundo conocido en Occidente. En una empresa caracterizada por el arrojo, las penalidades, la codicia, el fanatismo religioso y una exacerbada violencia, sin olvidar la curiosidad, los portugueses ganaron la carrera por llegar a la India y se hicieron los amos del océano Índico para controlar el comercio de especies, conquistando a cañonazos los viejos predios del legendario Simbad.
El historiador británico Roger Crowley (Cambridge, 1951), autor los éxitos Imperios del mar, Constantinopla 1453 y Venecia, ciudad de fortuna (todos en Ático de los Libros), publica ahora en la misma editorial El mar sin fin, un ensayo apasionante en el que plasma toda la emoción de ese episodio histórico, desconocido para muchos. Es una historia de treinta años, a partir de 1497 (la vuelta al cabo de Buena Esperanza), llena de momentos asombrosos, de maravillas, de anécdotas sensacionales, de barbaridades –en Goa mataron a tanta gente que los famosos cocodrilos locales no daban abasto- y de grandes personajes (Cabral, Vasco de Gama, el terrible Alfonso de Albuquerque, Duarte Pacheco Pereira, De Almeida). Crowley cuenta cosas como que los portugueses, que creían haber llegado a los dominios del mítico Preste Juan y tomaban el hinduismo por una forma rara de cristianismo, llevaron elefantes y rinocerontes de la India a Lisboa, y enviaron un ejemplar de cada especie a Roma de regalo para el Papa.
Restos del fuerte portugués de A Famosa, en Malaca, Malasia.
Restos del fuerte portugués de A Famosa, en Malaca, Malasia.
¿Por qué es tan desconocida la empresa portuguesa? “También lo era para mí”, responde Crowley, un hombre simpático y tan apasionado como sus libros. “Colón y 1492 han hecho sin duda sombra al imperio de los portugueses”. ¿Se equivocaron dejando pasar la oportunidad de ser ellos los que apoyaran a Colón? “En ese momento lo correcto, según todas las evidencias que tenían, era no hacerle caso. Los cálculos de Colón estaban obviamente mal. Hacía el mundo un 25 % más pequeño de lo que en realidad era. Resultaba lógico que los portugueses que poseían grandes astrónomos, matemáticos y geógrafos –entre ellos judíos huidos de España-, con conocimientos mucho más precisos, poco menos que se rieran de él. Era mejor ir al Este. Evidentemente luego quedó claro que Colón había descubierto algo grande, pero el propio Colón no sabía ciertamente qué. Creía haber llegado a Japón. Nadie sabía que América existía. Todo el mundo quedó muy sorprendido al ver que regresaba y con gente como souvenir que no parecían de la India. No fue hasta Magallanes que quedó claro para los portugueses que se había descubierto un nuevo continente”.
¿Se comportaban de manera diferente los conquistadores portugueses de los españoles? “Los españoles desembarcaban con intención de apoderarse de tierras, eran un imperio colonial terrestre. Los portugueses no eran muchos, su imperio era más marítimo y se basaba en el control de puntos estratégicos, en los que construían fuertes, y en el poder naval y no en la conquista de grandes extensiones de tierra, excepto en el caso del Brasil”. Crowley señala que los portugueses crearon el primer imperio marítimo prefigurando el de los holandeses y el de los británicos. ¿Cómo pudo Portugal hacer eso? “Sí, parece difícil de entender, es extraordinario; pero tenían 60 años de aprendizaje previo en la costa africana, durante ese tiempo desarrollaron conocimientos de navegación, de ingeniería naval, de cartografía y un proyecto nacional. Una diferencia con los españoles es que ese proyecto fue dirigido directamente por los reyes y controlado absolutamente por ellos, mientras que en el caso español hubo muchos aventureros que actuaron por su cuenta, como free lancers”.


Entre las muchas gestas que cuenta Crowley, uno tiene una debilidad por la del marinero de Oporto André Fernández que en una batalla naval con una flota musulmana se atrincheró en la cofa de su barco y rechazó todos los intentos del enemigo para desalojarlo durante dos días lanzando piedras y profiriendo insultos.
El autor indica que hay muchos misterios aún en la navegación portuguesa. ¿Puede que hubieran avistado América? “Es una cuestión interesante. Se abrían mucho en el Atlántico para coger los vientos que los llevaban a circunnavegar África, y muchos registros se perdieron en el terremoto que arrasó Lisboa en 1755. Uno se pregunta por qué hicieron mover la línea del tratado de Tordesillas si ignoraban la existencia de Brasil. Personalmente no creo que llegaran y de hecho no hay ninguna prueba, pero...”.
Crowley menciona a algunas mujeres en los viajes portugueses a la India. “Tenemos algunos nombres, pero no sabemos en calidad de qué iban. Quizá prostitutas. En todo caso no eran muchas y los portugueses se casaron muy a menudo con mujeres locales, lo que indica que no las llevaban para colonizar”.
El autor de El mar sin fin afirma que la empresa portuguesa inspiró a la NASA: “Tomaron ejemplo de cómo los portugueses consagraron mucho tiempo al aprendizaje de la exploración antes de lanzar sus grandes viajes”. Sin salir del símil espacial, a veces parece que los portugueses se lanzaron sobre el Índico y el Mar Rojo como los invasores extraterrestres de Independence Day sobre la Tierra. “Hay una componente de violencia y depredación sin escrúpulos, eran hombres hambrientos de riqueza, de oro y especies, y con sed de poder. El Índico era un lugar tranquilo, no quiero parecer inocente y romántico pero, aunque había conflictos puntuales y piratería, no había violencia a gran escala. Había muchos agentes distintos y libre comercio, la idea europea de monopolio resultaba completamente extraña. El mar era de todos. Los portugueses llevaron el terror y el caos a ese mundo”.
Crowley señala en su libro como las flotas chinas precedieron a los portugueses, “pero su mentalidad era completamente diferente, la de los chinos era una empresa de conocimiento y de propaganda, no aspiraban a conquistar el espacio comercial y no supusieron una irrupción traumática en ese mundo como los portugueses”.
La violencia con que entraron los portugueses en la red de ciudades y reinos de las costas de África, la península arábiga, la India, especialmente la costa de Malabar, y hasta Malaca, resultó incomprensible y aterradora. “Se habían forjado un fanatismo religioso en la cruzada en Marruecos, que fue su campo de entrenamiento, y de hecho hicieron planes para destruir la Meca, profanar el cuerpo de Mahoma y liberar Tierra Santa. Aunque también es cierto que emplearon la violencia para intimidar, como arma psicológica que compensaba el escaso número de sus tropas: tenían que inspirar miedo. Había asimismo algo de locura en algunos conquistadores portugueses, como Vasco de Gama, un hombre extremadamente violento”. De Almeida, por su parte, con el juicio perdido por la muerte de su hijo Lourenço en combate a bordo del Sao Miguel, llegó a decorar las puertas de la ciudad de Diu (Gujarat) con trozos de cuerpos desmembrados de sus habitantes. A menudo se ultrajaba a los prisioneros con la merdimboca, que significa precisamente eso. A los mahometanos se les añadía panceta.
Tecnológicamente, la conquista portuguesa se explica por la calidad de sus barcos y la eficacia de sus armas, especialmente su artillería, mucho más moderna que los de sus enemigos. Eso explica (además de la agresividad) que, por ejemplo, en Mombasa en 1505 los portugueses mataran 700 musulmanes y perdieran solo 5 de sus soldados.
A menudo se ultrajaba a los prisioneros con la merdimboca, que significa precisamente eso. A los mahometanos se les añadía panceta.
La cultura de los hidalgos, el honor, la hombría, la necesidad de demostrar el coraje personal, apunta Crowley, también influyó en la desmesura de la conquista portuguesa. “Compartían eso con los españoles, pasaban horas discutiendo quién iba primero en el ataque, se lanzaban al cuerpo a cuerpo, ese tipo de cosas. Eran gente moderna pero a la vez todavía medieval. Hay un lado ahí también de influencia británica en Portugal: en la corte portuguesa influyeron los códigos e historias de la caballería”. 
En sus libros, Crowley consigue meter al lector en la atmósfera de la época. “Intento narrar de una manera muy evocadora y visual para recrear el pasado. He ido en carabela, en una réplica. Eran barcos pequeños y aterradores. De veinte metros por seis. Cuando eres consciente de lo que era viajar a lugares lejanos y desconocidos en un barco así entiendes muchas cosas. En cinco años, los portugueses perdieron el 35 % de su flota en naufragios. Hay un dicho portugués que sintetiza lo que era la navegación: ‘Si quieres aprender a rezar, ves al mar’. Era horrible. Una expedición de Vasco de Gama estuvo 90 días en el mar, más que Colón en su primer viaje a América”.


El historiador Roger Crowley, retratado durante su estancia en Barcelona.
El historiador Roger Crowley, retratado durante su estancia en Barcelona.
¿Navega habitualmente Roger Crowley? “No, me mareo”, responde con una sonrisa. “Mi padre era de la Royal Navy y pasé mi infancia en barcos, así que los conozco bien”. El padre de Crowley, George Clement Crowley (1916-1999), se retiró como almirante tras servir valerosamente (lo condecoraron con la DSC, la cruz de servicios distinguidos) durante la II Guerra Mundial, participar en la batalla del Atlántico y la del Mediterráneo (mandó un destructor en Creta) y estar presente en la rendición de Japón.
No sorprende oírle decir a Roger Crowley que es un admirador de Patrick Leigh Fermor, de Jan Morris y del gran escritor de viajes suizo Nicolas Bouvier. En la actualidad, Crowley escribe sobre el final de las cruzadas y Acre, un libro que se titulará La torre maldita. Ha recorrido los escenarios y encontrado piedras de catapulta, un arma cuya tecnología considera muy interesante.
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