A noucentista journalist

Lluís Permanyer joined La Vanguardia more or less at the same time as I did, so I've been able to work with him for almost sixty years. Horacio Sáenz Guerrero, the newspaper's editor from 1969 to 1983, introduced me to him. He sparked my passion for publishing when I was just a young man who had just finished his degree in Economics and didn't even have a position at La Vanguardia. I had read articles by him in Destino, where he was a contributor, and I discovered in him a person who knew not only the art world but also artists very well. He was a friend of Joan Miró, Antoni Clavé, Salvador Dalí, Antoni Tàpies, and even Picasso, although I met him less.

In his early years at the newspaper, Permanyer wrote for the International section, which has always been highly valued by its journalists and correspondents. And it continues to be so today. He always had that distinctive, noucentista air. His elegant dress was reflected in his writing. Little by little, he began to write articles on art, while becoming the most knowledgeable person on Barcelona. Often, the habit makes the man, and in this case, it seems evident. Soon, his colleagues—and readers—began to call him a city chronicler, something he didn't quite like, because it seemed pretentious. Over time, Barcelona City Council wanted to recognize him as such, because no one knew the city like he did; no one was more critical not only of the grand municipal plans but also of the small details that could be improved. He was a great observer. And a man of curiosity like few others, which I think is the first virtue every good journalist should possess.

A privileged way to leave this world is to write until the last moment.

Permanyer's well-groomed hair and generous mustache became part of the La Vanguardia landscape over the years. A profound sadness fills all of us who knew him at this time. But I think that, although there's no good way to leave this world, a privileged way to do so is to be able to write until the very end. With a clear mind and a sharp pen.

Just yesterday, shortly before suffering a heart attack, he was having breakfast while checking how his article, submitted a couple of days earlier, had turned out in the newspaper. He was a tireless worker, a cultured man, a journalist steeped in experience, whom readers could discover walking through the Eixample district. We will miss his advice, but his memory will be indelible for those of us who knew him and benefited from his knowledge. No one like him can turn an anecdote into an unforgettable story.