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Leafing through Lisbon: Eduardo Gageiro’s urban photobook Lisboa no Cais da Memória (2003)

Folheando Lisboa: o fotolivro urbano Lisboa no Cais da Memória de Eduardo Gageiro (2003)
Paul Melo e Castro

Resumos

Examino neste artigo a representação do Estado Novo tardio na obra de Eduardo Gageiro, Lisboa no Cais da Memória (2003). Exploro assim o modo como  a obra está ancorada e como a sua clara filiação ​na "street photography" conduziu a uma particular leitura do trabalho. Nesta perspectiva, abordarei pois a forma como o formato do texto, enquanto foto-livro​, funciona de maneira a encadear e a sustentar a leitura, criando um espaço 'para-urbano', no qual o leitor pode seguir os passos do fotógrafo-flâneur, através de uma simulação articulada desse espaço-tempo.

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Notas da redação

Recebido: 30 junho 2017

Aceite para publicação: 31 julho 2017

Notas do autor

Article published as part of the Project Printed photography. Image and propaganda in Portugal (1934-1974) [PTDC/CPC-HAT/4533/2014] 

Texto integral

  • 1 Eduardo Gageiro would later publish a companion volume entitled Lisboa Amarga e Doce 1975-2010 (201 (...)
  • 2 See Clive Scott (2007) for a discussion of the differences between the macro category of documentar (...)

1Published in 2003, Lisboa no Cais da Memória collates photographs of the Portuguese capital taken by Eduardo Gageiro between 1957 and 1974, with the majority from the first half of this period1. Often described as Portugal’s foremost photojournalist, Gageiro has produced various photobooks, which track his work from illustrative images used in the press media towards the more diffuse aesthetic of street photography2. These works include paratexts by important Portuguese authors and authorities that trammel the overall meaning of the images, framing them as representing the enmeshment of ordinary people in historical circumstance: just to reference volumes whose concerns dovetail with Lisboa no Cais da Memória, Gente (1971) carried a foreword by José Cardoso Pires, a text that provides a perceptive analysis of Gageiro’s style, Lisboa Operária (1994) included a piece by David Mourão-Ferreira and Olhares (1999) was introduced by António Lobo Antunes. Indeed, given that it contains images previously published in each of these previous books, Lisboa no Cais da Memória can be viewed as playing an anthological function with regard to Gageiro’s views of Lisbon under the dictatorship.

  • 3 I have analysed this at length in my doctoral thesis, published as Shades of Grey: Lisbon in Novel, (...)

2Arrayed in sequence, the photographs comprising Lisboa no Cais da Memória convey a discontinuous story of the city in the post-war period3. James Elkins has discerned three main interests in contemporary photography studies: the photograph as art, as social document and as representation experience (2001: vii). Here I shall examine the latter two concerns, insofar as they are bound up with the organisation of Gageiro’s individual images into a photobook. In this respect, to sum up the photographer’s montage approach, Lisboa no Cais da Memória eschews any unbroken linear chronology or implied spatial trajectory, being organised instead into thematic strands (though there are short embedded sequences depicting discreet events). This approach is primed by the two texts which preface the book, one by a former president of Portugal, Jorge Sampaio, and one by journalist António Valdemar. These texts, in the same manner as the contributions by well-known authors to previous photobooks, serve as what Roland Barthes termed anchorage (1998: 39), textual signposts to direct the peruser’s reading of images. In the first Sampaio declares that Gageiro’s work ‘é um depoimento, um documento e uma memória. Por ele passam o tempo individual e o tempo colectivo, o tempo de alegria e o tempo da tristeza, o tempo da opressão e o tempo da liberdade’ [a testimony, a document and a memory. Through it flow individual time and collective time, the time of joy and the time of sadness, the time of oppression and the time of freedom] (in Gageiro, 20003: n. pag) and works a s signpost indicating that the individual photographs conflate individual experience and collective history and, in showing both happiness and sorrow, perform a balancing act between nostalgia and denunciation.

3For his part, Valdemar states that in Lisboa no Cais da Memória, ‘a figura humana voltou a ser o elemento nuclear da objectiva atenta de Eduardo Gageiro’ and that the book ‘representa uma interpretação e uma denúncia do quotidiano’ [‘represents an interpretation and a denunciation of the everyday’] (in Gageiro, 2003: n. pag). The semantic fields of the human and the everyday locate Gageiro’s work within the broad field of photographic humanism, pointing the reader towards a general interpretation of the photobook as a representation of a city where human life, though fettered, nonetheless flourished in a period of political, social and environmental change. Here I wish to examine how these signposts lead to certain pathways through the photobook, considered in the light of the expectations created by perceptions of genre and a weak narrative live engendered by seriatim presentation. Geoff Dyer has written that ‘[t]he history of the photographic book is the history of photographers and editors trying to lure and coax us into reading them sequentially, to persuade us that a visual narrative is at work, that the arrangement of material is deliberate, that the pictures’ effectiveness will be diminished if they are looked at in isolation or haphazardly’ (2007: 37). While I concur that such works are intended to produce meaning above the level of the single image, I disagree that conventional ideas of visual narrative are necessarily at play. I will argue that Gageiro’s book intends to do more than create a sequential treatise on place and time and that the ‘haphazard’ enables rather than obstructs the discursivity of Lisboa no Cais da Memória.

1. Gageiro’s street photobook

4The ‘positive role of haphazardness’ begins with the genre to which these images can be seen to belong. Taken in their vast majority in the public spaces of the city, Gageiro’s images fall into the loose category of street photography as defined by Colin Westerbeck and Joel Meyerowitz as ‘candid pictures of everyday life’ that feature ‘errant details, chance juxtapositions, odd non sequitors, peculiarities of scale and the quirkiness of life in the street’ (1994: 34). Westerbeck and Meyerowitz go on to characterise street photographers as bystanders, ‘people who come to bear witness. They are those who are there expressly for the purposes of making observations, which in this context is almost the same thing as making observances, as if taking the photograph were a ritual fulfilment of a moral obligation’ (Ibid.). Street photography, then, captures the humanist aperçus of the pedestrian attentive to the life, movements and emotions of people encountered while crossing the city. Gageiro’s photobook can be seen as the record of an individual trajectory through the time and space of dictatorship-era Lisbon. His photographs are identified and identifiable as taken in particular places and in particular years, ranging in space from the traditional dockside neighbourhoods to the incipient urban sprawl to the north and west of the city. This is within the context of an impoverished epoch of the 1960s, politically frozen yet dislocated by emigration and the colonial wars, only to lead to the explosive moment of freedom brought about by the Carnation Revolution in 1974.

5It is a commonplace that the act of photography severs image from place and time. Eduardo Cadava sees the image thus sundered as a ‘citation of history’ (1997: xviii). The question, then, in approaching historical epoch through photography is how to stage general conditions in a medium that only gives us snapshots, instants. Gageiro’s organisation of his photographs has the effect of translating his images into what Prinz calls ‘the dramatic event called a “book”’ (quoted in Parr and Badger, 1997: 7). The photobook through this lens becomes a sort of visual historiography, articulating the ‘insuperável papel de nos fazer ver o passado’ [‘unsurpassable role of making us see the past’] identified by Maria do Carmo Serén (2002: 20) that creates a supple discourse that gathers around a loose spatiality and temporality. If, as John Berger claims, ‘an instant photographed can only acquire meaning insofar as the viewer can read into it a duration extending beyond itself’ (1982: 89), the photobook encourages this sense of duration by gesturing past the isolating and excluding limns of the photographic frame to invite the peruser to an ongoing, contextualised reflection, imagination and critique. This duration is created by seriality, in which the repetition of themes, locations and tones press the images into signifying a wider reality. Parr and Badger argue that the ‘in the true photobook each picture may be considered a sentence, or paragraph, the whole sequence the complete text’ (2004: 7). I would say that, if the photobook occupies a grey area between the film and the novel, as Parr and Badger also contend, then logically the composing images of a photobook would hover somewhere between the literary units mentioned and the cinematic shot and sequence.

2. The photobook between film and novel

6This idea needs some unfolding. Peter Wollen has argued that while film is about ‘here-and-nowness’, the individual photograph concerns ‘then-and-thereness’. The photobook attenuates this opposition, introducing vectors of horizontality to what Wollen sees as the ‘vertical’ nature of the medium. Given that attention over time is the prerogative of the book’s peruser, they are permitted to ‘veer away on a train of thought, circle, back and criss-cross the image’ (2002: 76). In my argument, the organisation of images into a photobook allows these ‘vertical’ movements also to become horizontal movements through a simulated epoch-space (‘epoch’ here a much more fitting word than ‘time’, given the non-linear organisation of Gageiro’s book). Whilst events, people, and places are depicted and a certain ‘narrative description’ constructed through a mise-en-séquence, there is no clear ‘plot’ in Lisboa no Cais da Memória. How then does the historiography of Gageiro’s work function then? For Berger, ‘if photography does narrate, it narrates through montage’ (1982: 286). He suggests that the ‘montage of attraction’ might be the most appropriate term for how meaning is created in the channels between photographs. This, I argue, is what we can see at work in Gageiro’s photobook, the ‘emotivity’ of the Eisensteinian technique alongside the humanist focus of street photography as described by Westerbeck and Meyerowitz. In a montage of attraction, Berger explains, each image should attract that which follows and vice-versa. He goes on to argue that ‘the energy of this attraction could take the form of a contrast, an equivalence, a conflict or a recurrence. In each case, the cut becomes eloquent and functions like the hinge of a metaphor’ (1982: 287). These forms create paths through the photobook, the ‘hinges’ created by attraction joining the discrete visual elements together at a thematic, conceptual or emotional level.

  • 4 A literary journal whose contributors were particularly active in articulating an ideological count (...)

7Here it is useful to look at an instance of montage in order to see how this technique might function in practice. The sequence in question shows the 5 October 1960 protests against the Salazar regime by the MUD (Movement for Democratic Unity). The first image (Fig. 1) shows a group of protesters amassed before a public building, which flies a Portuguese flag in the shade. Directly below it, a member of the crowd holds aloft another Portuguese flag, this time highlighted in brilliant sunshine. Two versions of Portugal are here at odds. The next image (p. 281) ‘cuts’ in closer (though, from the change in background, it would appear that we have moved to another location) and picks out several members of the throng who are identified in the accompanying caption as key protagonists. They are Arlindo Vicente, a member of the Seara Nova4 group and a democratic presidential candidate in 1958, Adão e Silva, a lawyer from Lisbon and one of the regime’s staunchest opponents, and Azevedo Gomes, chair of the MUD. Behind them, reinforcing their alignment with the progressive forces of the nation, a lit Portuguese flag is again brandished by an anonymous protestor.

8The way the next images are linked bears significance. The following photograph (Fig. 2) does not date from 1960 but from 1966. It depicts what appears to be a police parade through one of Lisbon’s main squares. In a strong diagonal stretching from the bottom left upwards, a row of uniformed officers march imposingly, each led by a police dog. The effect is intimidating, not least because, reprising the lexis of light and dark in the previous images, the officer’s eyes are in shadow below the brim of their helmets. At the far end of the rank, peering from the pavement, hemmed in between a police vehicle and a prohibitive street sign, stand the public, constrained and cowed. The next image returns to 1960 and shows the march under way. In contrast to the harsh geometry of the previous image, the protesters are arranged in a loose cluster and look around in seeming trepidation, as if harried by the police officers behind. Despite the evident nervousness of the marchers, the illuminated flag again makes an appearance in the centre of the image, pointing to a tenacity of hope for a positive transformation. The two sides literally meet in the next image (p. 284), where a protester is assaulted by a policeman. The protester rolls back, one arm raised as a shield as the officer’s truncheon swoops down. The contrast between the clenched posture of the aggressor and the supine position of the victim encodes the greater relationship enacted in this incident between the forces of repression and liberty. The obvious inequality between the brute weapon used and the prone man’s ineffectual shield, and the disjointed temporal progression of the sequence, bring the anachronistic prepotency of the dictatorship into crystal clear focus.

3. Horizontal and vertical links

9Here, in the depiction of protest, power and repression, the consonance and dissonance between objects, moods and gestures, something approaching a plot unfolds. Not all the images in Lisboa no Cais da Memória entertain this sort of diegetic relationship however. Rather the link is thematic. Lisboa no Cais da Memória is divided into seven sections, each of which is organised loosely around a certain theme. Each of these sections is prefaced by an extract from a poem, which adds specific anchorage, and also a picture of a jobbing street photographer (of the type that once roamed the city selling portraits), who perhaps stand as tongue-in-cheek alter-egos of the real photographer who sought faces in the crowd for his own purposes. The first section deals with a cross-section of the city, both topological and social. It introduces the reader to the urban fabric of traditional neighbourhoods such as Alfama and the new Avenidas Novas areas that burgeoned after the Second World War. The image on page 24 ties these two aspects together: a shepherd and his flock are walking from right to left over rough ground, while the new urbanisations stretch out in the distance. The divergence and co-existence of old and new in the city is brought into focus.

10The second strand concentrates on children and activities of the street. While the focus is on the simple joys of childhood and their picturesque aspect, there is a more sombre undercurrent to these images. For Cardoso Pires, all Gageiro’s shots of children represent ‘a imagem da infância traída’ [‘the image of childhood betrayed’] (Gente, n. pag) by the political and social situation in Lisbon. One image (p. 67) shows a brooding young man cradling an infant whilst a group of children and women congregate in a doorway. It is impossible to read the precise context of the situation, the consternation on the man’s face and the infancy of the baby can be read as indicating a fear for the future. Another image shows a group of boys and girls careening down a hill through a bank of smoke (p. 70). The setting is Casal Ventoso, traditionally one of the city’s most impoverished neighbourhoods. While the children barrel down without a care in the world, the smoke represents the murky times in which they live and the uncertain future awaiting them.

11The third theme deals with urban everyday life, the traditional working existence of people who ‘mourejam por feiras e por cidades, ocupando o breve espaço da pátria que lhes cabe’ [‘slog through fairs and cities, occupying the narrow space of the homeland allotted to them’] (Cardoso Pires, Gente, n. pag) and the changes in their routines. Many images depict the traditional activities of Lisbon’s port, and the construction of the Ponte Salazar, a construction that encoded both modernity and political control (Fig. 3). The image showing a small fishing boat against the backdrop of the newly built bridge (p. 107) can be clearly read, similarly to the image of the shepherd discussed above, as a confrontation between the new and the traditional. Yet the position of the boat here, in the middle of the river, having left one bank without having yet arrived at the other, also symbolises that the fisherman still had the best part of a decade to wait until the bridge would receive its current name, Ponte 25 de Abril.

12The fourth strand zooms in closer to the traditional life of the streets ‘inland’. Images depict people in the midst of their daily round. The fifth section continues the themes of the third and fourth, but in a quirkier vein, whilst it also features various shots of people waiting around, particularly senior citizens. For Cardoso Pires, comparing Gageiro’s images of the aged to his photos of children, the Portuguese photographer ‘regista, sim, o velho que está dentro de cada adulto’ [‘documents, in fact, the aged person inside every adult’] (Gente, n. pag.). The implication is of a society that waited a lifetime for something that may never come, experiencing a feeling of historical inertia, fitting for Europe’s longest dictatorship, an anachronism in the fast-moving world of the post-war West.

13The sixth strand is dedicated to the social activities and pastimes of the city: music and drinking out, bullfighting and football, religious events and processions. In doing so, it provides a re-working of the way in which such everyday activities were instrumentalised by the New State regime. For example, football’s notorious use as a propaganda tool can be glimpsed in one image in particular (Fig.4) in which Salazar shakes the hand of the Eusébio, the nation’s top player upon the return of the 1966 World Cup. The fact that the photo is taken from a 360-degree angle from the rest of the press-pack reveals the way in which an apparently innocent ceremony of congratulation is mobilised as mass-media propaganda. The other side of football, its risky potential to arouse mass mobilisation and the way in which is can create spaces for protest, is seen in an image of protest banners held aloft by students during the Académica-Benfica cup final of 1966. Another image shows a referee swamped by pitch invaders after Benfica won the Portuguese league. The swarm of people recall both the protesters at the MUD rally and the ordinary cities who took to the streets in the aftermath of the revolution in 1974 and shown in the last photos in the collection, which forms the seventh and final strand of Lisboa no Cais da Memória.

14These more loosely connected thematic strands are constructed in the form of what Scott describes as an ‘outer monologue’ (2007: 41) and must be approached differently to the smaller, narrative-bound sections that exist within them. The relative disconnection between the constituent images means that Gageiro’s photobook cannot be easily compared to cinema in its overall effects. According to John Berger, the staccato presentation of non-narrative serial photography has two effects on the function of the montage of attraction. The first is that, instead establishing a fluid narrative, the attraction between images ‘closely resembles the stimulus by which one memory triggers another, irrespective of any hierarchy, chronology or duration’ (Berger, 1982: 288). The second points to the way in which this energy subverts the linear notion of sequence, creating a situation in which ‘the sequence has become a field of co-existence like the field of memory’ (Ibid.). Consequently, what Lisboa no Cais da Memória reveals is a homology between the photobook of the city and the past city space that gave rise to its constituent images, which now exist as a bank of historical sources and props to memory.

15For Eduardo Cadava, photographs transform time into space (1997: 59). If this is accepted, it can be argued that the sequential thematic arrangement of loosely connected images makes possible a spatial representation of late Salazarist Lisbon. This is an epochal space of official record and communal memory that can by moved through by a peruser in a simulacrum of flânerie and in a variety of trajectories, an impression enhanced by the street photographic nature of Gageiro’s work. Here I want to argue that, rather than viewer, spectator, beholder or reader, the most appropriate term for the consumer of a photobook is the ‘peruser’, since this verb most accurately suggests the various axis of attention this genre renders possible. In short, it can be said, the necessarily horizontal organisation of the book allows a multiplicity of vertical traversals, historiographic routes and personal shortcuts. These would be the result of associative readings. Unlike a film, in which the spectator is carried along by its flow of images and the phi phenomenon, in the photobook the direction and duration of the gaze is under the reader’s control. At any moment, by leafing forwards or backwards (an activity that the loose narrativity and physical pagination of the photobook positively encourages) the reader can bring two separate images into contact, generating his or her own montage of attraction. This could take the form of comparing the same place at different times, similar figures in different situations, or even just the serendipitous juxtaposition of disparate images, which are connected ad hoc by the act that joins them.

4. Syntagms and paradigms

  • 5 The notion of paradigms and a syntagms is derived from structural linguistics and is used here to a (...)

16To return to the visual linguistic metaphors mobilised by Parr and Badger, one way of conceptualising this process would be to compare the construction of sentences in language to this process of visual traversal. The vertical traversal can be compared to the paradigmatic chain, insofar as each image gains significance through diverging from a similarly themed ‘lexis’ of photographs. The horizontal traversal can be equated with the syntagmatic chain, in that the meaning of an image is enacted by its selection to follow a particular image combined with the tenor of the ensuing photograph itself5. An example: opening the book at random I see a dishevelled, impoverished man cooking dinner over a small fire on a street in the mid-1960s (p. 177). If I turn back a page I see Cardinal Cerejeira, the bishop of Lisbon at the time and a supporter of the regime. He is pictured inspecting a kitchen seemingly as part of the build-up to a lavish official dinner (p. 176). The contrast generates an impression of the inequalities and iniquities of the time. If I look at the opposite page, on the other hand, I see a group of women in the street eating a meagre meal together in the street. Yet, despite their apparent poverty, they laugh and joke with one another. Despite the deplorable poverty and rigid social hierarchy, there still exists companionship and solidarity (p. 178). My reading here would reflect a horizontal, linear traversal.

17If, however, as I amble through this sequence, I bear in mind, or leaf to, the images of the young soldiers embarking for the colonial wars (pp. 272-275) or the various images of men engaging in traditional professions as possible explanations for the absence of young men at the street meal, representing the exigencies of war or a traditional division of labour. Or I might turn instead to the image of a procession of Santo António in 1966 (p. 248) or the pictures of funerals and weddings and reflect on the myriad roles faith and religion play in the life of the city. With some 300 photographs in Lisboa no Cais da Memória, the number of such trajectories is manifold.

18The arrangement of motionless photographs into the sequence of the photobook and the movement needed to leaf through creates a weak simulation of engaging with time and place. It is though this weak simulation, and the critical, associative perusal it allows, that Lisboa no Cais da Memória offers up a motley vision of Lisbon in the terminal years of the New State. A wayward translation for the title might be ‘Lisbon in the Dock of Memory’, which would shift the meaning away from the cultural connotations of the wharf to the judicial frame of the court. In this way, as well as being the portrait of a port city, Gageiro’s photobook can be seen rendering possible an extended judgement, where aspects of the city are questioned and acquitted or commended from a humanist point of view, such as the simple communality of the people, disappearing ways of living, or tried and condemned, like the repressive apparatus of the regime, eventually swept peacefully away in 1974.

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Bibliografia

Barthes, R. (1998). Image-Music-Text. Trans. Stephen Heath. London: Fontana Press.

Berger, J. ; Mohr, J. (1982). Another Way of Telling. London: Writers and Readers Cooperative Society.

Cadava, E. (1997). Words of Light: Theses on the Photography of History. Princeton: Princeton UP.

Dyer, G (2007). The Ongoing Moment. London: Abacus.

Elkins, James (2001). What Photography Is. London: Routledge.

Gageiro, E. (2003). Lisboa no Cais da Memória. Lisbon: Self-Published.

Parr, M.; Badger, G. (2004) The Photobook: A History. Vol. 1. London: Phaidon.

Pires, J. C. (1971). Introduction. In: Gageiro, E. Gente. Lisbon: Editorial O Século.

Scott, Clive (2007). Street Photography from Atget to Cartier-Bresson. London: IB Tauris.

Serén, Maria do Carmo (2002). Metáforas do Sentir Fotográfico. Oporto: Centro Português de Fotografia.

Westerbeck, C.; Meyerowitz, J. (1994). Bystander: A History of Street Photography. London: Thames and Hudson.

Wollen, Peter. (2004). Fire and Ice. In: Wells, L. The Photography Reader. London: Routledge: 76-80.

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Anexo

Fig. 1 - The 5 October 1960 protests against the Salazar regime by the MUD. (Gageiro, 2003: 280).

Fig. 2 – A Police Parade, Lisbon, 1966. (Gageiro, 2003: 282).

Fig. 3 – The “Ponte Salazar” (The “Salazar Bridge”). (Gageiro, 2003: 107).

Fig. 4 – Salazar shakes the hand of Eusébio, the nations’s top player, 1966. (Gageiro, 2003: 255).

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Notas

1 Eduardo Gageiro would later publish a companion volume entitled Lisboa Amarga e Doce 1975-2010 (2012).

2 See Clive Scott (2007) for a discussion of the differences between the macro category of documentary and street photographic practice. For Scott ‘Street photography certainly puts us in a taxonomic quandary, not only because it stands at the crossroads between the tourist snap, the documentary photograph, the photojournalism of the fait divers (news in brief), but also because it asks to be treated as much as a vernacular photography as a high art one’ (2007: 7). I might be claimed, however, that a stronger presentational focus of street photography on form, everyday life and its consequent celebration of subjective perceptions are also differentiating factors, though these are largely questions of framing and consumption as much as intent.

3 I have analysed this at length in my doctoral thesis, published as Shades of Grey: Lisbon in Novel, Film and Photography (London: MHRA Texts and Dissertations). Articles based on this work have appeared as “Eduardo Gageiro’s happy-sad city: humanist street photography and Lisboa no Cais da Memória”. In: Portuguese Literary and Cultural Studies (23/24), 2011: 399-408; “The Eye of the Lens and the Feet of the Photographer: Eduardo Gageiro’s Lisboa no Cais da Memória” (2003). In: di Bello, P.; Wilson, C.; Zamoon, S. (eds.). The Photobook: From Talbot to Ruscha and Beyond. London, New York: I. B. Tauris: 2012; and “Photobook of the city: Eduardo Gageiro’s Lisboa no Cais da Memória”. In: Portuguese Literary and Cultural Studies (23/24) 2013: 399-408. While the present article complements my previous work, I diverge from previous ideas in my conception of the precise functioning of Gageiro’s photobook, in terms of the role played by haphazardness and the simulacral.

4 A literary journal whose contributors were particularly active in articulating an ideological counterdiscourse to the Estado Novo.

5 The notion of paradigms and a syntagms is derived from structural linguistics and is used here to account for the effect of collective yet seriatim nature of images in a photobook. In linguistics the syntagmatic axis concerns relations between a sign and the elements that surround it while the paradigmatic axis between a sign and the other elements in a system. The key idea in my argument is that, while linear in organisation, the photobook as a frame also establishes relations of synonymy, divergence, nuance and counterpoint between images presented separately. Admittedly absent compositions, tropes and perspectives might also form part of the network of paradigmatic relations, but what I hope to establish here is a heuristic comparison, not a cast-iron homology.

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Índice das ilustrações

Legenda Fig. 1 - The 5 October 1960 protests against the Salazar regime by the MUD. (Gageiro, 2003: 280).
URL http://journals.openedition.org/cp/docannexe/image/1971/img-1.jpg
Ficheiros image/jpeg, 464k
Legenda Fig. 2 – A Police Parade, Lisbon, 1966. (Gageiro, 2003: 282).
URL http://journals.openedition.org/cp/docannexe/image/1971/img-2.jpg
Ficheiros image/jpeg, 524k
Legenda Fig. 3 – The “Ponte Salazar” (The “Salazar Bridge”). (Gageiro, 2003: 107).
URL http://journals.openedition.org/cp/docannexe/image/1971/img-3.jpg
Ficheiros image/jpeg, 296k
Legenda Fig. 4 – Salazar shakes the hand of Eusébio, the nations’s top player, 1966. (Gageiro, 2003: 255).
URL http://journals.openedition.org/cp/docannexe/image/1971/img-4.jpg
Ficheiros image/jpeg, 659k
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Para citar este artigo

Referência eletrónica

Paul Melo e Castro, « Leafing through Lisbon: Eduardo Gageiro’s urban photobook Lisboa no Cais da Memória (2003) », Comunicação Pública [Online], Vol.12 nº 23 | 2017, posto online no dia 15 dezembro 2017, consultado o 17 julho 2019. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/cp/1971 ; DOI : 10.4000/cp.1971

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Autor

Paul Melo e Castro

University of Leeds
School of Languages, Cultures and Societies
University of Leeds
Leeds
LS2, 9JT,   
United Kingdom

p.m.castro@leeds.ac.uk

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Direitos de autor

Licença Creative Commons
Comunicação Pública Este trabalho está licenciado com uma Licença Creative Commons - Atribuição-NãoComercial 4.0 Internacional.

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