The carpenter who built a Gaudí-style house in Torremolinos by himself.

A couple of years ago, betrayed by Google Maps, I ended up lost in the upper part of Almuñécar . As I walked up a street punished by a harsh sunny spell, I noticed a wall with portholes. I stepped back to gain some perspective, and before my eyes, the hull of a ship almost 100 meters long took shape, complete with all its rigging, the main cabin, and lifeboats. It was all very naval, except for the fact that it was built entirely of brick and cement. Some time later, I realized that this building, christened Barco España , is part of a very specific typology of dryland boats, with other examples such as El Capricho de Pechón in Cantabria or the houseboat of Hornachos in Badajoz.

I learned about this through a prodigious book entitled Margivagant sculptures , published by Siruela in 2006, which, with the subtitle Fantastic Architecture in Spain , explores examples of sculptural buildings engendered by the imagination of artists , most of them self-taught, who undertake works with no other script than their imagination and the idea of ​​making a dream come true. Siruela's volume identifies several common characteristics among members of this lineage. They share an affinity with the organic and the grotesque, turning their backs on Euclidean geometry ; they escape formal training and official artistic channels; they often advance through improvisation in their architectural creations; and they embrace the recycling of materials or "pauperarte" to give shape to their works.

Some, like Justo Gallego and his cathedral in Mejorada del Campo , dedicate their entire lives to building a temple. Other creations, such as the well-known Pasatiempo Park in Betanzos or the Colomares Castle in Benalmádena, are driven by an encyclopedic zeal, glossing over historical ages and human milestones. In most cases, these are quixotic initiatives without official support, either from institutions or from the usual artistic circles. Spain, always more inclined to individual exploits than to collective movements, is a particularly fertile geography for this type of artistic manifestation.

The Axarquía house-museum

Along with dry-land boats, shell houses, and picturesque gardens, Escultecturas Margivagantes identifies another movement with its own identity: the Gaudi-Reoid style, characterized by the use of trencadís , the fragmented tile technique that Gaudí popularized with Park Güell, among other creations. This latter style includes a building that crowns the village of Valdés, in the heart of the Axarquía region of Málaga , which I stumbled upon thanks to binoculars borrowed from a country house earlier this year. The vivid colors of the tower and the reflections of a spire that looked like a Byzantine dream invited me to investigate further. An online search returned a name, Antonio Montañez , and a nickname: the Gaudí of Moclinejo.

Finally, last week we were able to visit the house museum with José Carlos Montañez, who, as he explained to me, is not related to Antonio. José Carlos, who has set up a tourism company to promote the cultural heritage of the Axarquía (AxarTrips), explains the themes of the building and the adjoining park, all with a profusion of trencadís. For example, the sculpture of a squat man reflects the arduous work of grape harvesting, carrying crates of grapes on their heads from the mountain to the village. A tribute to the stonemasons shows a giant with a head sprouting branches, a symbol of someone racking their brains to make ends meet.

A motley hodgepodge of vintage photographs, cans of quince paste from the 1960s, and vintage postcards awaits us.

Inside, a motley hodgepodge of vintage photographs , cans of quince paste from the 1960s , vintage postcards, folkloric verdiales hats, colorful tiles, and canvases by local artists like Paco Hernández awaits us in a five-story building with five themed rooms “and six bathrooms,” as the guide points out.

The entire building, constructed primarily with demolition materials, exudes an abundance of Churrigueresque flair, from the interior to the roof design, which captivated me through binoculars. It seems like the work of a lifetime, but José Carlos explains that the house museum was built in just one year by a team of five people. He has given us Antonio Montañez's contact information, so it's time to meet him in person and discover his next creation: the family home on Tirreno Street in Torremolinos.

“You'll always find me working here, so it's best if you stop by Torremolinos if you want to meet up,” the artist suggests over the phone. Upon arriving, I'm met by a facade with reliefs of handbags and high-heeled shoes. “This facade is dedicated to women,” he explains later. A medallion with the face of Cervantes greets us on the doorpost.

On the first façade, reliefs of handbags and high-heeled shoes appear: "This façade is dedicated to women."

The door opens and a man with sun-tanned skin greets us with a firm handshake. He's well into his seventies, but he exudes youthful energy and speaks with vivacity. As soon as we enter, he tells us that this ground floor, still unfinished, will be used as a museum of vintage toys . "Do you see those blue glass pieces?" he says, pointing to some circular panes embedded in the walls. "They're railway traffic light lenses that a friend of a friend who works at Renfe got me."

Beyond that is a room dedicated to the collection of a Dutch philanthropist who is yet to arrive. And then there's another room with farm implements, wine bottles, a bar, and a boar's head overlooking a door. In the near future, it will be " a wine cellar with tastings and an ethnographic museum ."

Antonio gives us some background on his origins. “I started working as a carpenter at nineteen, and then I had a furniture company called Cocinas Montañez.” They managed ten stores in a business that took its first steps in the 1970s. “Once, I was called to install a kitchen in Prado del Rey, on Spanish Television. It was for a program where artists like Isabel Pantoja cooked. So, in one of my kitchens, they made chicken à la Pantoja .”

And how did you make the leap into artistic creation? “I 've always been a lover of art. I was good at drawing, and I've made some sculptures that sold at an exhibition,” he says proudly. Later, he shows us a successful charcoal portrait of the spy Mata Hari. “In 2004, I was involved in building several houses and thought about dedicating one of them to the Axarquía region , as a tribute. I wanted to leave something in the town,” he tells us when we ask about the house museum.

Initially, he had planned for the house to be for his father, but when his father saw the size the building was taking on, he chose not to live there. Did it get a little out of hand ? “Yes, exactly,” he answers with a laugh. He adds: “The tile part is because I've always collected tiles; from Seville, from Mensaque, from Manises , even from Portugal. I've been recycling things I found.”

Many of those tiles, he tells us, came from demolitions. “Unfortunately, there were a lot of people hooked on drugs, whom I always said were my friends . When I went to the bar where they hung out, the owner would ask me how I could relate to them, and I would reply that they were my true friends. They have hearts of gold. It's society that has fooled them into thinking they were good. They never stole from me, although it's true that there were people who got materials during the day and then robbed them at night.” And so, with a troop of poly-addicts working on demolitions, Antonio acquired huge quantities of tiles. “Enough to fill one or two warehouses.”

And so, with a troop of poly-drug addicts working on demolitions, Antonio acquired huge quantities of tiles.

And he lays the tiles himself? “My daughter-in-law helps me, but I'm the designer, the artist... I improvise. I have the photo in my mind and, as I often say, you have to take it. Sometimes I make changes on the fly.” That was the method he applied to the Axarquía house-museum. “Every night I would prepare what we were going to do the next day and present it to the crew; that's what I did with the roof, which has 26 waterfalls.” We pointed out the frantic pace of the work, and he explained that he slept very little. Two or three hours? “ I don't think I slept at all, maybe two hours, but when you want to do something and your mind is clear, I think you can do without a lot of things, right?”

“I haven't received any help from the city council; I've never wanted to be tied down,” he tells us when we ask him about the type of support he's received. “I've funded all of this myself.” “I'm also working on furniture for Torremolinos. I often make high reliefs, sculptures…” And is it all self-taught? “Yes, completely. I've drawn my own conclusions, the logic of things.” And any role models? And here he answers without flinching: “Well, of course Gaudí , whom I admire enormously. Because he was the ultimate architect and artist. His parents did artistic sawmilling, a very special kind of sawmilling.”

After the house in Axarquía, which he filled with all kinds of objects from his personal collection—"I've been a collector of everything, things I've found at flea markets in different countries, from a market in Portobello to another in Germany"—and the closure of the furniture company, which was devastated by the 2008 crisis, the project for the Montañez house in Torremolinos , dedicated to his family, began to take shape. The façade of the main house is a fantasy in polychrome trencadís featuring lollipops in honor of his grandchildren, flamingos, butterflies, roosters, and Axarquía chameleons . Then, scattered around the courtyard, we see a goat and a donkey, among other animals. It was originally intended as a family home, but it seems he went too far here too. For now, he's been working on this project for eight years, with the goal of opening it to the public by the end of 2025.

There is not a single surface that is not covered by a painting, a molding, some series of tiles or some period furniture.

Antonio gestures vehemently, and I can't help but notice his woody hands ; they look like the twisted branches of an old tree that has weathered many storms. "I cut this finger off with the woodworking machine," he tells us. It's impossible not to remember those figures in his house museum—the grape picker, the stonecutter—who embody the sacrifice of work and the toll it leaves on the body. I suggest taking a picture. When I ask him to choose his good side, he replies, laughing: "I don't think I have one anymore."

Although the interior won't be open to visitors, Antonio invites us in. The central staircase, culminating in a star-shaped vault, is impressive. Here too, horror vacui reigns: there isn't a single surface not covered by a painting, a molding, a series of tiles, or some period piece of furniture. He also designed the Art Deco doors, he notes. He shows us a carefully carved bar cabinet. "Here, two artists stand out; the one you see down here was less talented."

He offers me something to drink, and since I'm a freelancer, I accept a beer . Sitting in the living room, he tells me more about his time with the furniture company and the Montañez label. "We always gave the kitchens a special touch. I would measure, arrive at the kitchen, look, and when the lady asked me what I was going to do, I would say, 'Look, the kitchen has already spoken to me and told me how it's going to be prettiest .'" And there, on-site, he would draw the design freehand. "I'm good at drawing, and some people even asked me if I had already brought the design when they saw how elaborate it was." He does, however, emphasize the importance of utility beyond aesthetics.

Antonio recalls the marathon days, which sometimes ended at midnight, and when he got home, he spent time preparing budgets until 3:00 a.m., all with the "fundamental" support of his wife. Do his children continue with the business? "Yes, they have a furniture store and a workshop, but as they say, they haven't traded money for health like I did."

Before we say goodbye, we wish him luck with his projects. After hearing everything about his life and work, it's inevitable to think that Montañez's work is the purest and most essential expression of the creative impulse in a human being . And that the marginalized are the rest. Surely the Pre-Raphaelites , with their maxim of making the artist a craftsman and the craftsman an artist, would applaud his work.