Granada loves everything tiny. And in general all Andalusia. The language of the people puts verbs in the diminutive. Nothing so inciting for confidence and love. But the tiny things of Seville and the tiny things of Malaga are cities at the crossroads of water, cities with a thirst for adventure that escape to the sea. Granada, still and fine, girded by its mountains and firmly set in its surrounding area, seeks its horizons, recreates itself in its small jewels and offers in its bland tiny language, without rhythm and almost mundane, if compared to the phonetic dance of Malaga and Seville, but cordial, domestic, endearing. Tiny and scared like a bird, which opens secret chambers of feeling and reveals the most defined nuance of the city.
The diminutive has no other mission than to limit, bound, bring into the room and put in our hand the objects or ideas of great perspective.
We limit time, space, the sea, the moon, distances, and even the prodigious: action.
We do not want the world to be so big, nor the sea so deep. There is a need to limit, to tame the immense terms.
Granada cannot leave its home. It is not like other cities on the shores of the sea or the great rivers, which travel and return enriched by what they have seen. Granada, solitary and pure, shrinks, girding its extraordinary soul and has no other way out than its natural high place of stars. For this reason, because it has no thirst for adventure, it folds in on itself and uses the diminutive to gather its imagination, as it gathers its body to avoid excessive flight and to harmonize its interior architectures soberly with the living architectures of the city.
That is why the genuine aesthetics of Granada is that of the diminutive, the aesthetics of tiny things.
The creations of Granada itself are the dressing room and the viewpoint of beautiful and reduced proportions. As well as the small garden and the small statue. (…)