Auditorium / Cinema / Library
Next we will make a short tour around the interior 1700 m2 of the museum where we have recreated, down to the last detail, spaces and settings of everyday life of our predecessors.
Wool and linen
The lover sows the linen in the month of March to gather a frayed stem. After the banging and combing process the linen thread is ready for the loom where the hopes of a dowry weave and interweave: sheets and handkerchiefs The sheep goes to the hairdresser’s every spring and gives us its wool. With the spindle and distaff a thread is spun by day and night until it forms a ball, like a chrysalis. The skilful woman’s hands have beaten the hard winter and have adorned Sunday with a white shirt.
The seamstress comes from the village making a living for herself. A patterned skirt, trousers with turn-ups, an open-necked blouse, a blue dress with a matching pair of white shoes. For the Corpus or the San Mateo festival when different eyes will be looking at you. And the dressmaker who dresses dreams, receives a few pennies to dress the hardships of life whilst a boyfriend comes to rescue her.
The cobbler showing off your art as a restorer, healing the wounds of poverty in the leather of a pair of shoes; providing shoes for life to walk along the paths and and across the dance squares. The small cobbler’s workshop with its anvil, awls and hammer sustaining our steps.
The Sandal Maker
Sandals are the mark that is left on the paths. First it was leather; a few simple cuts for the laces to pass through as they hold on like ivy around the stockings. Sandals to suffer in the fields struggling against the thicket; but with them the young men and women write the happy melody of a celebration.
The Espadrille Maker
On the bench, the espadrille maker sits, turning the hemp and sowing it to the black cloth. Espadrilles are actually the fragile and gentle wings for a Basque dance. Work is thus transformed into music and the couples have the profound feeling of the magic of their existence on the cobbles of the square.
The bee, not as a worker, but through its passion for flowers that shout their colours, makes its endless journey with its small gift of pollen. And in the warm geometry of a beehive the beekeeper with cunning smoke collects the honey: to cure a cold, to hush a child who cries his future, to enjoy that pudding that you, dear lady, make so deliciously. Amongst the whispers of the night a wax candle feeds a flame.
The grapes fall onto the old winepress and they break casting their juices, of sun, water and earth. The grape must escape towards silence until it matures into wine. It will come out to seal a friendship in every glassful. And old friend from the celebrations that goads us to transform the insipid water of law and the routine into freedom. And the apple drops from its viewpoint on the branch where it has been forming its sweet flesh, it lets its heart be broken and gives all. And the juice is born, smooth, fresh, golden, to bring everyone together, men and women, young and old in a gift.
Good cheese born from bad milk, set and shaped until it achieves its own body. Sheep’s or cow’s cheese. Nature is multiplied in its gift and the craftsman prolongs the flavours so nobody looses the desire to keep on living; and in the poorest house the mother ewe has allowed her shepherd son to enjoy this food.
Sifted flour, yeast, salt and water invent the greatest miracle of our existence: a loaf of bread that has been through the old oven absorbing the heat and the silence to become an offering. Sanctified by a cross it is known as our daily food. Tomorrow is another day, another loaf of bread and the same love of the one who kneads it.
It is the heart of the family: light, warmth and food. There, on her chair, the grandmother who shells the beans and the grandson who victoriously reaches her lap, the mother who arranges all their feelings, the father who adds a necessary dose of silence, the children who are fighting, in training for the long duel with life, the prayers as night falls. Chorizos and pork loin sausages hang, maturing to taste. In the kitchen legends and destinies meet and they are soaked with a love for the earth.
Slaughtering the pig
Its name is not right; it is a cunning way to make a sacrifice. Fruitlessly it complains of its fate. The fire purifies its skin. In a sausage or protected in lard it maintains the hard existence in the difficult winter months a contribution to help the cycle continue.
The seed anxiously seeks the sun And drinks it in through its leaves. In this symbiosis the tree offers itself in wood with it grains that are the marks of a life. The carpenter with the kiss of his hands works it into a piece of furniture or a structure; on some occasions, it is passed to an artist’s hands to create an amazing piece of work, almost resurrected.
Iron is the heart of stars; That is why it shines with fire. Then the strong skilful hand of the blacksmith, using this moment of light or tenderness, shapes it in the anvil to turn it into a weather vane on a bell tower or the bars on a window.
Blow by blow with a hammer and chisel, with precision the rough, heavy stone is transformed into the lintel on a window. “What are you making?” they ask the maestro. He does not smooth down the stone; He makes a town by raising it to the heights. And the hard stone faithfully obeys the stonemason’s idea.
They go without haste and return at the rate of tiredness, the man, the oxen and the cart or sometimes the donkey. Loading the grain, the wood, the grass, carrying the rubbish... And with a thrush’s song and the groans of the wheels the cries of the guide intermingle as he asks his animals to keep up the pace, to carry a weight and to go forwards leaving the afternoon behind them.
The Basket Maker
The green branches from the chestnut a nd hazelnut trees soaked in water until they are soft. Once they are open the withies are created. On the workbench the basket maker smoothes them down. With skilful weaving baskets are created for thousands of uses. And the basket maker is still a poet of objects.
La cosecha(wheat, grass)
In the afternoon they look to the skies with concern: “I hope to God there “aren’t” a storm tonight”. And early in the morning, with the sun that turns the wheat golden, the whole household attends the task of reaping, tying into sheaves, to cart it to the threshing floor... On many occasions it is a common task: first its your turn, and then ours... until the flour comes out of the mill and the dry straw waits in the straw loft for the winter.
He was the first to make cultivation-culture working the land as dedicated as a wife. Beans, wheat buried in the furrow will provide plenitude, tomorrow. A guide for oxen and ploughs, you fertilize the clayey earth to put the white bread on the table and finish making yourself seed and sowing.
The earth bore its fruit from a courted woman. The earth caressed by the ploughs, combed by the rake, the furrower, the harrow, germinating wheat, beans, maize, pepper, potato, onion, with all the care received, it has been generous. She was called Ama Lur. We can also say Land, wife of the man and his plough.
The stable. The farm. The henhouse
In their owner’s house, forming a large family, keeping warm in winter, mixing their waste sharing the leftovers from dinner we find the hens and the chicks growing up under the grandmother’s bench, the cats prowling around the stalls, the pig growing day-by-day and making piglets, the cows and the oxen, the swallow’s nest in the eaves, the weasel hiding in the shadows, the sparrows search in the porch and the children play with the dog. How many are there in total in one family? Who lives off whom?