Summarize this content to 2000 words in 6 paragraphs in Arabic Stay informed with free updatesSimply sign up to the House & Home myFT Digest — delivered directly to your inbox.“My dream, once I am able to settle down somewhere,” wrote the artist Joan Miró in 1938, fed up of working in cramped, borrowed spaces in Paris, “is to have a very large studio.” In 1956, aged 63, he achieved that ambition, bringing to an end years of travelling. He had been born and brought up in Barcelona and spent many years living in France. However, it was on the island of Mallorca, where he had holidayed as a child and where he married his Mallorcan wife Pilar Juncosa, that his dream was eventually realised.He found a site for his studio and house, which were to be built next door to each other, with just a door and a couple of steps separating them. It was a steep, terraced hillside on the outskirts of Palma, with views of the Mediterranean. Yet one of the most noticeable characteristics of the buildings is that the lower half of the studio — the large, airy space where Miró would paint — offers no view of the sea. The studio also faces south; most artists tend to favour cool, steady north light. But for Miró, shutting off the world was also a way of turning inwards, of connecting to his imaginary universe, the source of his semi-abstract art. It also has the effect of preserving the impact of the view of the sea — so that it stuns afresh each time you step outside.The architect was Josep Lluís Sert, a former student of Le Corbusier and old friend of Miró’s. From the outside, the building is what you would expect of an architect and artist steeped in prewar Modernism. Bright white walls contrast with woodwork painted in glossy, primary colours, reminiscent of those found in Miró’s work. The concrete roof is constructed in curves, like seagulls’ wings, which cast dramatic shadows in the strong Mediterranean light. Inside, a homely, organic disorder prevails. Miró bequeathed the studio to the city of Palma on his death in 1983, and it has been preserved to look as though he has just left. Paint-encrusted brushes and palette knives sit among oily rags that look like they’ve been recently tossed aside. Canvases of all sizes, some works in progress, are propped casually against the wall. On the mezzanine level, there is a more private thinking and drawing space, with books, plan chests, desks and chairs. Everywhere is an assortment of found objects — from ceramic vessels to dried plants, shells and toys — as well as sketches, posters, magazine clippings, photos and postcards pinned all over the walls. These were sources of inspiration but also the way Miró adjusted to the new space when he first moved in, a way of flooding it with familiarity. He lived next door, in a building now occupied by his grandson, which is connected by a door and only a few steps. When a handsome 18th-century farmhouse came up for sale in 1959, Miró bought it to “make monumental canvases and sculptures, freeing up my studio space”. Again, he first had to create the right atmosphere for working, drawing on the walls and pinning things to them. A horrifying mummified cat – that had the misfortune to be locked in the house for six months while Miró was away – reveals a macabre streak.According to his grandson, David Fernández Miró, Miró worked differently in this studio. “He let off steam here, getting rid of all his excess energy. He described it as a ‘wild’ way of working in contrast with the Sert studio, where he worked in a more attentive, contemplative way.”With foresight, Miro’s purchase of the second space was also intended to “protect me against potentially annoying neighbours”. Today, blocks of high-rise flats cluster around the studio. Somewhat miraculously, however, Miró’s open views out to sea have been protected, as well as its sense of sanctuary and creativity.miromallorca.comFind out about our latest stories first — follow @FTProperty on X or @ft_houseandhome on Instagram
