It all started with the Gypsy Ballads. His grandmother gave it to him when the book was banned. Joan-Pere Viladecans was about seven years old. Margarida Xirgu, a great friend and childhood neighbor on Jaume Giralt Street, probably sent it to her. She claimed that they wrote to each other all their lives; the family believed she was exaggerating. Kept like a treasure, Viladecans found those letters that record the actress's journey in exile. Xirgu, euphoric, says something like: “We are packing our bags, soon we will walk arm in arm along our beloved boulevard again.” And in the next: “We have canceled the plans, for now forever.”
The artist would move from Lorca to Espriu when, as teenagers, a friend lent him his poetry anthology. He understood almost nothing, but something remained inside him and he painted inspired by his work: “Then I had the shame of showing up at his house to show him what I had done.” The poet questioned him: what does this mean? And what does this mean? In the end he told her: “Neither s’envaneixi nor s’acolloneixi, I bet on you.” He would exhibit for the first time when he was barely twenty years old. And now, on the coffee table between the sofas in the living room, in Canet de Mar, is Sinera, a bibliophile's edition with poems by Espriu that he illustrated, also Salveu-me la mira, where his engravings accompany Martí i Pol; and his Patrimoni i memòria, and Deu entrevistes by Julià Guillamon. On the glass, half-read, Suttree, by Cormac McCarthy, “absolutely incomprehensible, but beautiful.” On a shelf on the wall, Històries i llegendes de Barcelona, by Amades, the General Geography of Catalonia and The Doctor at Home, “fundamental for a hypochondriac,” he says, “it is like a guardian angel, always at hand, better than Wikipedia, which assumes that everything is a tumor.”
For a long time, Viladecans only read poetry, but he thought that something more discursive would suit him, and he opted for the North American ones: he has read Philip Roth from top to bottom – Heritage seems extraordinary to him, he doesn't understand why it is not in Catalan–, Pynchon, Faulkner, Steinbeck; The Grapes of Wrath inspired The Ghost of Tom Joad, from the revered Bruce Springsteen. He has gone to all of his concerts in Barcelona and already has the ticket for the next one; She will end up, like the others, displayed on a methacrylate support, on the shelf in his study. Here the light changes at full speed, and each season of the year is different. He paints in the immense open space below, and writes as he paints – from a phrase or image, turned into an idea – on the desk above, the ceiling high above our heads.
He does it by hand and, until the heating takes effect, he sacrifices himself. On the table there are pens and tubes of glue next to The Statue of Salt by Lugones and Desgracia impeorable, by Handke. Behind, between an authentic Goya and a dedication by Miró (1979, his legs trembled when he received it), the books are placed out of order on an old shelf, probably by Vinçon, full of siurells. He was struck by Mortal y rosa, by Umbral, there is also a Gypsy Romancero from 1937 that is not his grandmother's, and many dictionaries, he consults them often. “A problem for the books are the dragons, who eat them.” There is an encyclopedia of bulls, and a photo of Che Guevara in the Plaza de Las Ventas.
On a side table, more framed photos. When she goes out with Jaume Cabré, he likes her a lot (and she makes a cameo in Jo confesso). Viladecans talked a lot about literature with Robert Saladrigas; They didn't always coincide. He is unable to leave a bookstore without having bought at least four books. Then he gets distressed because he has to read them all. Never simultaneously, always on paper; E-books seem sacrilege to him and he “thought the Kindle was a chocolate egg,” he jokes. He has only left a book half finished. Read at dusk. He takes notes, underlines, even corrects them (he recently detected a “José Luis Borges”). Before, marking them seemed disrespectful to him, but he has lost the shame because no one else will read them. Since he is sad to see them end, he sometimes prolongs reading on purpose, and leaves the last pages for the next day.
