There’s a vintage shop in Palma called Món S.XX that sells mid-century furniture, 1970s lighting, aged garden tables, globes and pictures. I drop in on my city walks just in case I might need a large porcelain puppy (€20) or a portrait of a woman looking as miserable as sin (both currently in stock). Usually, I leave without handing over any money to the owner, Ramón – but a year ago that all changed.
You enter Món S.XX via a narrow corridor, pass through an internal courtyard and then reach the shop proper (tucked around a corner is the workshop, the nails and screws needed for repairs stored in an old Haribo sweets unit). It was in the courtyard that I saw Ramón, who was removing a woodworm-riddled frame from a vast 3D relief map of Mallorca, the synthetic peaks of the Tramuntana mountains rising a giddy 10cm from the board, the surrounding sea painted azure blue. I needed this in my life.
Ramón explained that, originally, the map had been lit from behind and, when you flicked a switch, you would have been able to see the glowing routes needed to take you to 10 key spots (a trick aided by pieces of clear plastic embedded in its surface). A deal was struck.
Part of my excitement was that for years I had seen similar maps in old hotels, offices and shops around the island, and had always coveted them (no one was up for selling). These maps were all made by a company called Relieves Castaneda, which had a clever sales trick: it would add the name of a client’s hotel to the map, making them the heart of the action. Mine, made in the late 1970s or early 1980s, was for the long-gone Hotel Tulipan in Can Pastilla.
Illustration: Mathieu De Muizon
And so began a story of restoration and revival. My good friend Roberto found an electrician to rewire the rear but first there was summer to get out of the way. It was some four months before this task was done but it was done well. Next stop: Xicarandana, a framing shop so great that every gallery seems to use it. A few more months ticked away before I got the call that all was completed. It looked magnificent, with its dark frame and a delicate new switch. I transported the map home, rested it on the floor and – snap! I broke the switch. Back to the framers. By now everyone had been drawn into the saga and another friend, Chiara, offered to have the very heavy map put in place by her art-hanging contacts. There is another stage too: the map’s 10 empty windows once had pictures behind them, 35mm slides of the Drach Caves at Manacor, of the beach at Cala San Vicente. I am missing only three of these now – thank you, Ebay.
It was almost midnight when I got home to the apartment last Friday but the first thing I did was flick the switch, stand back and look in wonder at the map, with its glowing yellow roads and those soon-to-be-filled windows. I stood in the dark wondering how many times guests at the Tulipan had also stared at this map and used it to plan their next day’s excursion. How had the hotel manager protected those delicate mountains from a cleaner’s over-enthusiastic feather-dusting? Yes, it’s a map of the island but it’s also a map that lights up a road to the past, to distant sultry summers and long-forgotten holidays.
The next morning, I spotted that the old workshop address for Relieves Castaneda is painted onto a corner of the map. I looked up the address on my phone. The map was made a minute’s walk from my front door. It was meant to be.
Now about that porcelain puppy…