Before the jackdaws raise their festive song again, the square fills with a silence that doesn't appear on any festival program. Conversations fade, children tiptoe to catch every detail, and all eyes converge on a single figure. Slowly, a powerful eagle advances through the procession. Its neck bends with ancient precision; its wings, motionless, seem to still hold the impulse of flight. Each step is deliberate, each gesture breathes a solemnity that time has not managed to erode.When the dance begins, the square changes its rhythm. The drums give way to restrained music, the bows draw a language that crosses centuries and, for a few moments, the celebration abandons the clamor to become an act of honor. The eagle dances with the majesty of one who represents something much older than herself.There are few figures in Catalan popular culture capable of arousing similar emotion. For more than six hundred years, the eagle has traversed the streets of towns and cities, leading processions, opening festive parades and greeting authorities with the same serene nobility. Since the late Middle Ages, it has embodied the dignity of the city, the memory of the community and respect for its institutions. When it advances amidst music and silence, it is not just a crowned bird crossing the square. It is an entire town that recognizes itself in its gestures and that, year after year, continues to find in that dance a way to celebrate its own history.The bird that could caress the SunBefore becoming the most solemn figure in Catalan processions, the eagle already soared through the imagination of great ancient civilizations. Its flight, higher than that of any other bird, awoke a fascination that would span centuries. It seemed to approach the Sun to where the human gaze could not reach, and it became a symbol of strength, power, and incessant renewal. Greeks and Romans made it an emblem of strength and authority. Over time, medieval tradition would expand this symbolism by attributing an exceptional quality to it: the ability to hold its gaze before the light of the Sun without faltering. Legends went even further. They explained that when their feathers aged, the eagle would soar up to the sun's rays for the fire to consume them. Then it would descend to a spring of pure water to submerge itself, emerging with new and shiny plumage. That cycle of fire and water turned it into a powerful metaphor for the Renaissance, an image that would take root deeply in the medieval imagination.

The main square is packed to the rafters. Grallas and timpani announce the start of the festivities. And the anticipation is palpable: a new giant, a dwarf, or a fire-breathing dragon will dance for the first time before the townspeople. Among the eyes watching the scene, some are especially excited. They already know which figure will appear: they know its size, its relief, its colors, and the fabric of its costume. Eyes that could belong to Ramon Aumedes, Sessa Casserras, or Pau Reig, three of the twenty or so creators of festive imagery in Catalonia. ARA has visited their workshops to discover who they are and how the creators of the more than 5,000 giants, 20,000 big-headed figures, and 10,000 bestiary figures found throughout the country work. A job that straddles the line between craft and art.