Mallorca
deutsch / english / español
Photo book / Photo book / libro de fotos
Texts and photos / Text and photographs / Texto y fotografía: François Maher Presley
Graphics / Graphics / Gráficos:
Publisher / Editor / Editor:
2015, hardcover, 448 pages, A5 landscape
Price: 29.95 EUR | Order
Go to content
This book was created during the author's two-year stay in Palma de Mallorca. It amounts to a textual and photographic declaration of love.
Unusual shots, a sensual, romantic text. Some of the pictures are graphics by the artist Bernhard G. Lehmann, which are shown here.
from the content
I'm back in my days, in this country, in my city: Palmaria, a fishing village with a marina, which has a great reputation in Europe, filled with small and large yachts, yachts of the rich and famous, rented yachts, borrowed beauty, Conquered fortune, sometimes lost, all lost, if it weren't for the inner beauty and wealth like the people on the street with their velvety brown skin, the full head of hair, the beautiful, large, lively brown eyes, the pronounced cheekbones, the robust , but still sensual lips that you touch in your thoughts, with closed eyes that you might kiss, very gently, that pull you away to the sea, to the white beach, hours that never pass, moments full of eroticism, the desire to hold on, to forget, just to be, body to body, in the shade of the palm trees, accompanied by the sound of the sea, if it weren't for the sudden roar of motorbikes in the streets without it which Palma, without the Palmaria, my former fishing village, might have remained a village.
A village would have remained like in the 14th century: The plague is raging in Valencia and Catalonia, King John I of Aragon and his wife Doña Violante end up with their court in Palma on the run from the deadly epidemic, away from the tragic and Merciless dying of the masses, but also away from life, into the presumed solitude, yes, the wilderness of Mallorca, up to Bellver Castle, over 100 meters high, once commissioned by King Jacob II of Mallorca. Its solid Gothic walls stand splendidly with a view over Palma, the bay and the hinterland, which emerged from nowhere at the beginning of the 14th century, and accommodate the couple, accompanied by some of the country's knights and nobles.
First quietly, then louder and louder, concentrating, I hear the deep voice of the king who calls for dinner, the bright laughter of the damsels, the musicians singing ballads that tell of the bad and devastating things from home. Be quiet and you can hear the guards on their tour and the call at the gate: "Who is there and what is his desire?", In the corridors in the evening after the countless meals, the gentlemen knights holding the ladies' hands, yes caressing them, and on feast days you can hear the roar of the bull, which is specially brought up in the courtyard to show what a real bull is and what a bullfighter is. The days in Bellver seem mild to me, and high up on the tower Doña Violante looks into the distance, into the home she longs for, despite the beauty of the island and the endless expanse of the sea, despite the loud playing of the court jester, in spite of the brightly colored hats that he wears, pasted with stars and a crescent moon, and in spite of the magic wand in his hand with which he - pretending to be a witch - lures the distance for his mistress; but is the imagination enough for this kind of reality?
english / englisch
I'm back in my own time, in this country, in my town: Palmaria, a fishing village with a marina that enjoys an excellent reputation in Europe. It is home to yachts, large and small, belonging to the beautiful and the wealthy and to rented yachts - borrowed beauty and wealth acquired but sometimes lost, all lost were it not for the inner beauty and the inner wealth of the people on the street with their glistening dark brown hair, their large, beautiful, brown eyes full of life, their prominent cheekbones, their pronounced but sensuous lips that you brush, deep in thought, with closed eyes, that you may kiss tenderly, that lure you away to the sea, the white sand of the beaches, to endless hours, moments full of eroticism, the desire to stop, to forget, simply to be, body against body in the shade of the palm-trees with the rush of the tide in your ears, interrupted by the sudden wailing of motorcycles in the streets without which Palma might well have remained a humble fishing village.
Might well have remained a fourteenth century village: plague was laying waste to Valencia and Catalonia, and King Juan I of Aragon, his queen Doña Violante, and their court landed in Palma to take refuge from the deadly epidemic, far away from the tragic and relentless death of the masses but also far away from life, moving in to the little-known isolation and savagery of Mallorca at Bellver Castle, over 100 meters up in the hills and first commissioned by King James II of Mallorca. Its solid Gothic walls overlook Palma, the bay and the hinterland; it was created out of nothing in the early fourteenth century and now it takes the royal couple, accompanied by a few local knights and nobles, to itself.
Softly at first, then louder, I strain to hear the deep voice of the king summoning the occupants of the castle to meals, the bright laughter of the young women of the castle, the musicians singing ballads recounting the disasters and horrors of the homeland. If you are quiet, you can hear the watchmen on their rounds challenging visitors at the gate - “Who goes there?”; in the evenings, in the corridors, you can see the knights, done with their copious meals, giving their hands to the ladies, making love to the ladies, and on festival days, you can hear the roaring of the bull that was once brought up here to demonstrate in the castle courtyard what a real bull was and was a bullfighter was. Up in Bellver, the days strike me as mild, and high up on the tower, Doña Violante is gazing into the distance, out to her homeland for which she is so nostalgic despite the beauty of the island the endless expanse of the sea, despite the exuberance of the court jester, despite his multi-colored hats adorned with stars and a crescent moon, and despite the wand in his hand, which he uses when he disguises himself as a witch to conjure up the distant homeland for his lady; but do I have enough imagination for this kind of reality?
Spanish / Spanisch
I am back in my days, in this country, in my city: Palmaria, a fishing village with a yacht port that enjoys great fame in Europe, with large and small yachts, rich and handsome, rented yachts, borrowed beauty, fortune achieved, sometimes lost, all lost, if it were not for the inner beauty and wealth like that of the people on the street, with their velvety brown skin, their beautiful hair, their beautiful big brown eyes so full of life, the marked cheekbones, the thick but sensual lips, that one touches in his thoughts, with his eyes closed, that one perhaps kisses, very gently, that takes you far, to the sea, to the white beach, hours that do not pass , moments full of eroticism, the desire to stop, to forget, to just be, body to body, in the shadow of the palms, accompanied by the whisper of the sea, if it were not for the roars of the motorcycles in the streets without those who Palma, Palmaria, which was once a fishing village, would have perhaps continued to be ndo a town.
A town like in the fourteenth century. The plague strikes Valencia and Catalonia, King Juan I of Aragon and his wife Doña Violante disembark with their court in Palma fleeing the deadly epidemic, to get away from the tragic and ruthless death of the masses, but also from life, in a A foreboding loneliness, a wild Mallorca, they move to the Bellver castle, located more than a hundred meters high and whose construction was commissioned by King Jaime II of Mallorca. Its thick Gothic walls rise up majestically with views over Palma, the bay and the interior; They were created from scratch at the beginning of the 14th century and give shelter to the royal couple along with some of their knights and local nobles.
First as a slight whisper. Then higher and higher, concentrating, I hear the deep voice of the king, who opens the banquet, the clear laugh of the maiden, the musicians who sing ballads about the horrors and disasters of the country. If you stay still you hear the guards making their rounds and asking at the entrance: "Who is going?", You see in the corridors at night, after the sumptuous dinner, the gentlemen taking the hands of the ladies, caressing them and on holidays you can hear the roar of the bull that they have brought expressly to show in the courtyard of the castle what a real bull and a bullfighter are. In Bellver, the days seem peaceful to me and above, at the top of the tower, Doña Violante looks into the distance, towards her country, which she misses despite the beauty of the island and the immensity of the sea, despite of the animated games of the jester, with his colored cap with stars and a crescent, despite the magic wand that he holds in his hand and with which he pretends to be a witch capable of bringing that far-away country to her mistress; But is fantasy enough for this kind of reality?
