Tile Tale: The Spanish Origins of a Global Obsession

A Spanish Beginning: From Al-Andalus to Talavera

The word azulejo comes from Arabic al-zulayj, meaning ‘polished stone’, a reflection of the Moorish roots of tile-making in the Iberian Peninsula. As early as the 13th century, Spanish artisans in Andalusia were producing glazed ceramics with intricate geometric patterns and vivid colour.

By the 15th century, the tile industry was booming in Seville, particularly in the Triana neighbourhood, where workshops developed techniques like cuerda seca and arista. One key figure was Francisco Niculoso Pisano, an Italian artist who settled in Seville and began painting narrative scenes on tiles, turning walls into visual stories.

Later, the town of Talavera de la Reina rose to prominence in central Spain, known for its delicate brushwork, soft colours, and floral motifs. Talavera ceramics were so prized that King Philip II commissioned them for his royal palace and monastery at El Escorial.  In fact, according to Professor Pleguezuelo, the king even wrote letters complaining about tile delivery delays  (proving that no matter the century, construction always has delays!)

Azulejos from Talavera de la Reina at El Escorial, Spain via Patrimonio Nacional

El Escorial, the austere and vast monastery-palace built under Philip II, may seem like the last place you’d expect to find decorative tiles, and yet they’re there, lining kitchens and corridors. The reason? Practicality. Tiles kept rooms cool, repelled humidity, and were easy to clean – a kind of elegant functionality in a deeply symbolic building.

In Casa de Pilatos in Seville, a favourite of mine, azulejos are elevated to high art. The house features over 150 tile designs, some dating back to the 1500s. These tiles create rich mosaics of colour and form, blending Gothic, Mudéjar, and Renaissance elements into a visual language that tells the story of centuries past.

Casa Pilatos, Seville

You might be wondering, why are tiles so popular in Portugal? While Spain gave tiles their start, Portugal made azulejos iconic. In the 16th century, King Manuel I of Portugal brought Spanish artisans to Lisbon after visiting Seville. Over time, Portugal developed its own distinct style, especially the blue-and-white narrative panels inspired by Chinese porcelain and Dutch Delftware. Following the Lisbon earthquake of 1755, tiles were utilised to quickly and affordably decorate and protect buildings during the reconstruction process. Today, tiles cover train stations, churches, townhouses, and cafes, a national identity expressed in ceramic.

Convento de São Vicente de Fora, Lisbon

 Function Meets Form: Cooling Walls and Storytelling Surfaces

Azulejos were never just beautiful, they were also practical. In hot climates like Andalusia or central Portugal, tiles covered interior walls to provide natural cooling. They also offered a cheaper alternative to frescoes or tapestries, especially in churches, where large tiled panels depicted religious stories. Their durability made them ideal for public buildings, kitchens, staircases, and patios. In northern regions like Asturias (where I’m from),  you’ll see far fewer tiles in historic architecture. The cooler, wetter climate didn’t demand the same kind of interior cooling, and walls were often left bare or clad in wood and plaster instead.

Palacio de Riofrio, Portugal

Spanish 19th century azulejos via https://museoazulejo.org/

One of my favourite spaces in Spain to see historic tiles is this extraordinary kitchen room in Madrid. In the fourth floor of the Museo Nacional de Artes Decorativas sits the so-called ‘Cocina Valenciana’, a late-18th-century kitchen originally from a palacete in Valencia, reassembled here tile by tile. Its walls of vivid azulejos depict scenes of kitchen life, food, tools, and domestic animals, giving a vivid window into a past domestic world. As highlighted in a detailed article from Valencia Oculta, the space was less a working kitchen than a location designed for entertaining guests, where the display of food objects and utensils served as part of the decorative and social programme.

Images: Wikipedia & Valencia Oculta

From the Cocina Valenciana preserved in Madrid’s Museo Nacional de Artes Decorativas to these twenty-first-century spaces below, the dialogue between tile, food, and domestic life continues,  glazed in blue and white across time.

A London kitchen with hand-painted tiles by Antonia Stewart

One of the restaurants in Finca Cortesin features a tiled wall.

Across the Channel, in Victorian and Edwardian Britain, tiles found a new kind of expression. While Iberian azulejos celebrated domestic ritual and craftsmanship, in England, the Arts & Crafts movement transformed the humble tile into a canvas of artistic and moral purpose. At the heart of this revival stood William De Morgan (1839–1917), a close friend of William Morris and one of the most imaginative ceramic designers of his time.

De Morgan’s tiles shimmered with fantastical creatures, fish, birds, sea monsters, galleons and stylised florals, all rendered in deep copper reds, greens and lustrous blues. Drawing from Islamic, Persian, and Renaissance influences, he experimented tirelessly with glaze chemistry, rediscovering the iridescent metallic finishes of Hispano-Moresque pottery. His London workshops, located in Chelsea and later Fulham, produced panels that graced fireplaces, interiors, and architectural facades, elevating tiles from practical wall coverings to works of art.

Multi-Lustre Dodo Tile and Bedofrd Park Daisy tiles by William de Morgan, 1898, De Morgan Collection,

This artistic shift was part of a broader nineteenth-century enthusiasm for decorative tiles, which became emblematic of modern urban life. Britain’s rapidly expanding railway network adopted ceramic tiles not only for their beauty but also for their durability and ease of cleaning, ideal for the smoky new public spaces of the Industrial Age. The London Underground, hospitals, and public baths of the period were clad in glazed tiles, marrying hygiene with ornament and transforming everyday infrastructure into an architectural spectacle.

Within this context, Leighton House in Kensington stands as one of the most enchanting examples of tile artistry in Britain. The home and studio of the painter Frederic Leighton, it was conceived as a total work of art,  a synthesis of East and West. The celebrated Arab Hall, completed in the 1870s, is lined with sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Syrian and Turkish tiles, glowing in turquoise and cobalt. De Morgan himself contributed replacement panels and supplementary designs that harmonised with the originals, seamlessly bridging Victorian creativity with Islamic craftsmanship.

Today, walking through the restored Leighton House, a place I’m proud to represent as a Digital Ambassador on its 100th year-, one senses the same reverence for tiles that shaped De Morgan’s experiments and the Arts & Crafts ethos: a belief that decoration, when crafted with care, becomes the soul of architecture.

NB: I know this is just one corner of a much wider story. From the kilns of Iznik to the studios of Delft, tiles have travelled across cultures and centuries. I’ll save that northern journey – to the Netherlands and beyond – for another post.