Traditions of Holy Week between Italy, Spain and Malta


Southern Europe across the Mediterranean has several similarities in custom and tradition which extends from food to festivities - probably nothing is more intense to the religious and profane festivities leading and related to Easter, the greatest of feasts in the Roman Catholic tradition. Throughout the centuries these traditions have changed and assimilated from each other - a great legacy can be drawn between three countries with their particular regions - mainly, Sicily in Italy, the Analusian region of Spain and the Maltese islands. Unique traditions can be found in a number of regions which probably due to seclusion in the past have led to the formation of an independent custom of events, attire and celebrations, yet all drawn to the same Roman Catholic roots - Marsala's Veroniche, seemingly out of something from the Balkans or the Middle East, San Fratello's Gudei, very much a grotesque re-interpretation of the attire worn during Holy Week in most of these places and Prizzi's Abballu di lu Diavuli (Dance of the Devils), very much like something coming out of the Ancient Greek Theatre in the attire of the Devil are cases in point - Trapani more traditionalist holds the oldest of Italy's processions and also the longest in the 24 hour Processione dei Misteri on Good Friday, with figures similar to those found in Southern Spain yet in a sombre interpretation. The culmination of Southern Spain's Holy Week is definitely the processions of Seville, the longest in the world, almost going on for a whole week 24/7 - (yet, a main difference lies in the fact the the week is more festive in mood, with bars open, people eating and drinking and also the representation of the Statues, with Christ never crouched and in pain but rather victorious) - the Saeta singers are also very much uniquely attributed to the region, yet in regions of Sicily one finds such similar musical manifestations, normally less formal which seem to remind one of origins in Arab laments, possibly leading back to the fall of Granada in 1492 - these have in turn influenced a lot similar traditions in Italy especially the south and most particularly Sicily, still felt in one of the largest celebrations of Holy Week on this Mediterranean Island in the processions held on the mountain town of Enna. The island of Malta, lying in close proximity to both Sicily and Southern Spain, have drawn a lot from these influences most evidently from its neighbour island of Sicily.

It was the 10th of March, my birthday when I had to fly to Santiago de Compostela. A city I knew well as I had been on the Camino several times along the years. I had walked the Via Tolosana from Arles to Santiago, verging around 1500km - a great experience and challenging walk. Last November I did a shorter route - the Camino Portuges do Costa from Porto, very pictoresque and less challenging.

In Santiago, I had to sing the role of Sharpless in Puccini's famed opera Madama Butterfly and later would have the opportunity to photograph the city again. On my second day all was cancelled along with my return flight from Santiago as Malta closed all fights to several countries including Spain. That evening I walked in the historical centre and headed to a favourite bar and whilst sipping my favourite cerveza 1906 along with a delicious pincho of tortilla de patatas I decided what my next move should be. I was toying with the idea to walk again towards Finisterre, but that would take me only four days, whilst the Camino do Norte was impractical. I had a flight from Porto on the 19th of March so that left me ample time. I remembered a few weeks earlier I had laughed by a prospect passed by a friend who said I might not be able to return upon mentioning I was headed to Spain.

I finally decided I would head to Porto, on the familiar Camino Portuges and complete the last bit by transport. The next day I eagerly took the route out of Santiago. Destination was the small town of Padron. Some friends of mine hearing the news and knowing I was in Spain called me to check I was fine. As I had left Santiago around noon I only managed to hit Padron at around seven in the evening. I met loads of pilgrims going my opposite direction. The majority were young Germans, but I remember there were Spanish, Portuguese, French, Russian and an Italian. I remember vividly earlier that day meeting briefly three young Germans who were amazed I knew Giessen, the town they came from as I had visited thanks to a friend who was a lead opera singer at the theatre. We took a picture together for memory and I had continued on my journey.

I walked to the historical centre of Padron to buy a raincoat and some food for the next day and was pretty excited to be on the Santiago route again. After speaking to several pilgrims of their journey and the situation in general I slept soundly and the day after was fresh to get back on the route. It was an even more interesting day, as the route by then becomes more rural and isolated. I remembered a bar on the way from which I sent some pictures to Miguel, a Spanish hiker I walked with the last few days on my last Camino. Destination was Caldas de Reis, a pretty town with thermal fountains dating back to the Romans. One of the pilgrim’s hostels which I tried to check in was closed - I found it a bit strange and upon inquiry, I was told the Spanish government was closing anything related to the state in that area. I had checked two days previously at the pilgrims’ office in Santiago if everything was normal on the route and they were positive. Thus, I headed to the albergue I had known from last time. All was normal there and I hanged out with several pilgrims. Due to this, I missed going to a favourite bar I had discovered on my last Camino, at a refurbished mill on the river. The following morning whilst checking the news on my laptop in the patio of the albergue, the owner, an elderly Spanish lady, told me all would be closed from that day onwards. Initially I thought she meant the albergues, but she said only food shops and pharmacies would be open and there was a decision pending on closing the borders. I immediately changed plan again and decided to head to the bus stop, where I met around ten German youths waiting to get to Porto - the majority seemed pretty nervous and didn’t take my jokes very well. They also heard that the Spanish border was to be closed soon. My aim was to arrive at Tui, at the border with Portugal, hoping all would be fine on the other side. I had to take three buses, initially to Pontevedra and another to Vigo from where I would head to Tui. It was around one o’clock when I arrived there. From the Bus I could see deserted streets and shops with closed shutters. Upon arriving close to the border I could see a policeman outside the police station but I was not stopped. I crossed the bridge, usually very crowded and only met what seemed to be an elderly pilgrim from America headed to Spain. I told her all was closed there, but it seemed she did not understand me.

I was in Portugal. I ascended the stairs to the historic fort of Valenca hoping nobody would stop me. And nobody did. It was pretty surreal. The churches and all the places in the fort which usually cater for tourists and pilgrims were open and their owners and workers outside. But nobody was inside. I was the only outsider around. Only at the other end of the fort I met four Spanish Pilgrims returning home from Porto. Two kilometers later in the scorching sun, I stopped at the first bar I found, and got a refreshing Super Bock - I spoke a while with the owner and the three people inside and it seemed all was pretty normal there. I had intended to go to a place I stayed in last time, a lodging at Vila Nova de Cerveira, a pictoresque area of Portugal. I phoned Margot, a German who lived in Portugal for some twenty years and who had made a career as a composer specialized in New Age music, who remembered me from the last time I was there. I had anticipated five hours on foot and my calculations were precise. I remembered almost all details from the route and was delighted to re-visit a lot of places along the way. I was the only pilgrim on the road, though Portugese people were around, sometimes glancing at me rather strangely as I presume they thought nobody was on the Camino any longer. That evening was a memorable one. Not only Margot was very welcoming, against all odds I met a German couple, Jonathan and Sussana who also offered to share their very abundant and delicious meal with me. Despite this, more unwelcoming news came forth as Margot told me that next Monday all would be shut down alongside transport - and there was a pending decision if other airports would be closed. As I had no tent and was several days away from Porto, I wasn’t left with many practical options. Against my will, I thought the most practical would be to try to catch the flight the following morning which left at 10.20. The only available transport was a bus which arrived at 9.45 meaning I had to literally get through the security gates in no time. I presumed the streets would be empty being a Sunday and the airport not too crowded and the worst thing which could happen would be missing the flight and therefore would have to improvise how and where I will stay. I know Porto pretty well so it would be all fine. I managed to get the flight tough.

APOCALYPTIC HORSES


I remember opening the month’s National Geographic Magazine and glancing at an image which fascinated me. It was a horse jumping through a fire - typical of Spaniards I thought, and my mind began wondering. I know Spain and the Spanish spirit pretty well especially the Andalusian region as I had photographed some of their major festivals. I remember with great emotion the very well-known Semana Santa of Seville, which led me to the Feria de Abril and eventually to the most exalting of all, the pilgrimage of El Rocio. All very much in the spirit of Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon and Fiesta - whilst the latter was as if I had fallen onto a set in a Sergio Leone Western movie (in fact he shot his Dollars Trilogy starring Clint Eastwood with Morricone’s haunting music on a film set in the same region where the Festival takes place, that of Huelva). Possibly nobody knows how to have a great time more than the Spaniards do, especially in the Mediterranean area, where every occasion is a reason to celebrate. I love that nonchalant, slightly gypsy spirit where nothing is really planned and spontaneity makes the atmosphere bubbly, real, unexpected and exciting, very much in league with my character.

I instantly made logistical plans for the following month to arrive to the nearest city of Avila. As always despite the research, until you arrive at the place you really do not know what to expect. Upon arriving I discovered the only way was to get there was by car, therefore, I got a taxi which took me through the narrow and swerving mountain road. Occasionally I could also see cows in the middle of the street, a thing I thought had become obsolete in these areas - my excitement grew as I thought I would fall onto something which is rather rare and hidden.

Preparations were ongoing for the feast when I arrived in San Bartolomé in the afternoon - loads of small branches and twigs of around a storey high were placed every 200 meters or so around the two streets which made the majority of the houses in the village. I had thought I might be one of the few professional photographers around but upon entering what seemed to be one of the main bars I spoke to several from the local or international press. I was the only one to document the mass in the small church tough. Later I followed the locals around parts of the village who all seemed to have fallen out of something like Robin Hardy’s movie The Wicker Man starring Christopher Lee - in fact this was very much a pagan like tradition under a religious cover - alongside their parish priest they wanted to give benediction and pray for their animals, mostly sheep, goats, dogs and some pigs as the festival celebrates the feast of San Antonio, patron saint of animals. The fire which was to come, symbolizes the purification of the animals - as the horse is central in traditional farming, this spectacular festival turns around the horse as the dominant beast and it is the highlight of the evening. Night fell and the temperature dropped dramatically being January the 16th with the village situated in high altitudes - the fire was finally lit. I love photographing these types of festivals which are still very raw and unique, thus not manipulated by tourism and external laws. A great number of horses and their riders began trotting and jumping through all the bonfires which were lit - with the flames and excitement the cold weather dissolved into nothing.

Whilst photographing one takes every precaution and common sense prevails in not putting himself or anyone else in danger. I was mostly shooting with a telephoto lens, trying to eliminate clutter and focus on those apocalyptic moments when the horses jump through the flames - at these crucial instances, we trigger the acute hunter’s instincts. I was totally focused onto getting the perfect shot. Everything happens very quickly and although the route is the same, situations change constantly. Through a telephoto lens one’s vision is usually limited to the focused point - I placed myself relatively close to the bonfire to shoot horses coming towards me, jumping sideways at the last second. Excitement escalates at these moments of danger. On one occasion I could instantly hear four hooves instead of two yet I focused only on the horse trotting directly towards me - I was calculating distances only through sound. I remember in the same split second, thinking I got the shot and hearing the hooves of the invisible horse reaching me onto my left-hand side and in no time and without any warning I felt the horse’s hind leg hitting me slightly on my left shoulder which with immense power flung me to the opposite side. A few centimeters closer would have meant disaster, yet it resulted in one of the great memories of my travels on the verge of danger.

At the bar and in between shooting I had made friends with some locals who were amateur photographers originally from San Bartolomé but now living in Madrid. Every year they came to the feast and met all their relatives and friends from all over Spain. I was naturally invited to join the after-party in front of one of the houses, with bountiful local wine and great Spanish tapas - what can be more enjoyable?

Early next morning I was one of the few around following and documenting three horse riders in the mist through streets in the mountains visiting every house and getting a gift from the elderly community of the village.

Ballet Dancers

We all need inspiration. And we find it in different aspects, through reading, watching a documentary or a movie, paintings, images of all kind, research, and many a time through inspiring individuals. I was living in a period of my life in St. Petersburg, Russia - a city build on what used to be unlivable marshland, by Tsar Peter the Great as a window on Europe, which he knew well through his travels, and to display the impressive power and superiority of the Romanovs. I loved the city, every step you make in the historical centre is full of history, reminiscent of the great writers, composers and painters who lived there. I frequently thought of the writers Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Lermontov and Akhmatova, composers Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky and Shostakovich, painters Bryllov, Shishkin and Repin and film directors Kozintsev and Tarkovsky who dwelled in the city, in my daily walk. This usually took me from the Maarinsky Theatre, the Conservatory through to St Isasc’s Cathedral and from the end of the Neva, towards the Peter the Great statue on the Neva, onto Dvortsovy Bridge towards the Hermitage Museum and through Nevsky Prospekt. Every Friday, I used to ‘get lost’ in the Hermitage, with its vast and impressive collection and my visits to the Russian Museum where Russian painters are displayed, and the numerous theatres where very frequent. One of my favourite sections of the Hermitage was the third floor where the impressionist painters where exhibited and unconsciously but surely I was definitely inspired by the ballet paintings of Degas, Manet and Toulouse - Lautrec. Besides, I tried to meet with as many people as I could who were running or into the cultural scene - I had friends who were performers, and artists from all spheres, and was in good contact with the British editor of the St. Petersburg Times who also featured some images and travel articles I had done. Another such individual was the photographer Sergei Maximishin, originally from Ukraine but who settled in St. Petersburg. I had already done some travels to the Russian far East visiting places totally off the beaten track such as the island of Sakhalin, where Chekhov wrote his book Ostrov Sakhalin literally The Island of Sakhalin (in his time a sort of Alcatraz for exiled individuals under the Tsars), and also visited Lake Baikal, Irkutsk and Vladivostok apart for the legendary Trans-Siberian railway in deep Winter, which made me frequently re-imagine the scenes (though shot in warm Spain with special effects) of David Lean’s masterpiece adaptation of Pasternak’s Dr. Zhivago featuring Julie Christie and Omar Sharif in the main roles, and the harshness of living in the Siberian Taiga from the autobiographical novella A Day in the life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn - very frequently, though I took it as a joke, a lot of people thought I should be some sort of spy, a foreigner running around with my camera in these less frequented places. Maximishin has photographed in all these places, his style is very much realistic, venturing on Don McCullin yet in colour, as he mostly specializes in war zone images and social aspects, far from what I usually photograph - I found his images to be some of the best from all of his contemporaries. In fact he was one of the very few photographers who got a prestigious prize in the World Press Awards. I originally found Maximishin through one of his books which I saw and bought at the Zinger bookshop in front of Kazan Cathedral. After several months I managed to locate him and he invited me to his house at the far end of Nevsky Prospekt. I remember that encounter of a few hours as a great insight - we discussed in Russian language, anything from arts, politics and culture and found we had similar curiosities and interests. Maximishin suggested, as I was in close contact with a lot of performing artists, to begin photographing them. Weeks passed onto which I turned the idea around into my head, finally deciding to jump into action.

Initially, I needed to cross the bureaucratic hurdle, and I had to do it with a very diplomatic touch - which I managed after a few attempts. I was given carte blanche by the ballet director to photograph his troupe. Up until then, I did not know much about ballet dancers, apart that I had seen several of their classics at the theatre, mainly Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker and Swan Lake - and it was actually the rehearsals and performances of these two classics which I would eventually photograph most. The St. Petersburg Conservatory Theatre ballet troupe, were all graduates of the Vaganova Ballet Academy in Rossi Street, St. Petersburg, one of the most prestigious ballet schools in the world. This Academy has an exceptionally tough selection (an account give to me by one of the students and eventually tutors there, himself a ballet star, who was originally from Finland and during Soviet times was given the possibility to be a citizen of the USSR in exchange of his original, but refused, and returned there after perestroika) where only the crème de la crème who enrol from an early age manage to complete the course and eventually become accomplished ballet dancers who would then be chosen by the theatres in the city, throughout Russia or around the world. As a curious traveller immersing myself into a new dimension, I discovered ballet and from the very moment I shot the first images my obsession with this art glorifying elegance and the human body enchanted me.

Throughout several months from the initial introduction where the dancers were all too aware a photographer was following their every step, I became a familiar figure, photographing them in all spheres of their professional lives - throughout intensive and exhaustively disciplined rehearsals, short times of repose in a relaxed atmosphere, and nerve-wracking performances. I gradually became the invisible photographer who walked in the shadows on tiptoes hiding behind curtains and props. It is thus I created some of the most intimate images, out of which most remain some of my favourites from all the reportages I did throughout the world. I believe that what we carry as photographers, is the whole package of who we are as individuals, and all of us photograph partly instinctively, in our own vision - the influences are to an extent moulded in our subconscious but are a major contributor to what catches our eyes and what we choose to immortalize in a single frame. I loved shooting ballet and the dancers for several reasons, but probably mostly because it was a major challenge, working many a time in the Caravaggesque low lights of the theatre with a handheld camera and trying to catch those magical moments which form in front of your eyes in constant metamorphosis. None of the images are posed, which partly makes this reportage unique as very few throughout the world seem to have had that privilege. I remember that after each shoot of several hours I would go home, starving and exhausted but extremely exalted with the happenings of the day. I came to understand the struggle, psychological and physical which every member of the dance troupe has to undergo; every instance is a challenge, to be performed to utopian elegance, based on the Classical Russian Ballet. These bodies, float and fly in the air as if weightless, creating a magical world in a sphere of spectacle, power and elegance. This March I was walking in drab weather throughout the streets of the historical centre of Santiago de Compostela, Northern Spain, and my mood changed to great joy when I came across a poster featuring a prima ballerina I recognized instantly as she was one of those dancers I had photographed back then.

TRADIZIONI DELLA SETTIMANA SANTA FRA ITALIA, SPAGNIA E MALTA.

- Traditions of Holy Week between Italy, Spain and Malta -

Istituto Italiano di Cultura, Valletta, Malta - 2018
Inaugurated by Italian Cultural Ambassador Dr. Salvatore Schirmo


Southern Europe across the Mediterranean has several similarities in custom and tradition which extends from food to festivities - probably nothing is more intense to the religious and profane festivities leading and related to Easter, the greatest of feasts in the Roman Catholic tradition. Throughout the centuries these traditions have changed and assimilated from each other - a great legacy can be drawn between three countries with their particular regions - mainly, Sicily in Italy, the Andalusian region of Spain and the Maltese islands. Unique traditions can be found in a number of regions which probably due to seclusion in the past have led to the formation of an independent custom of events, attire and celebrations, yet all drawn to the same Roman Catholic roots - Marsala's Veroniche, seemingly out of something from the Balkans or the Middle East, San Fratello's Gudei, very much a grotesque re-interpretation of the attire worn during Holy Week in most of these places and Prizzi's Abballu di lu Diavuli (Dance of the Devils), very much like something coming out of the Ancient Greek Theatre in the attire of the Devil are cases in point - Trapani more traditionalist holds the oldest of Italy's processions and also the longest in the 24 hour Processione dei Misteri on Good Friday, with figures similar to those found in Southern Spain yet in a sombre interpretation. The culmination of Southern Spain's Holy Week is definitely the processions of Seville, the longest in the world, almost going on for a whole week 24/7 - (yet, a main difference lies in the fact the the week is more festive in mood, with bars open, people eating and drinking and also the representation of the Statues, with Christ never crouched and in pain but rather victorious) - the Saeta singers are also very much uniquely attributed to the region, yet in regions of Sicily one finds such similar musical manifestations, normally less formal which seem to remind one of origins in Arab laments, possibly leading back to the fall of Granada in 1492 - these have in turn influenced a lot similar traditions in Italy especially the south and most particularly Sicily, still felt in one of the largest celebrations of Holy Week on this Mediterranean Island in the processions held on the mountain town of Enna. The island of Malta, lying in close proximity to both Sicily and Southern Spain, have drawn a lot from these influences most evidently from its neighbour island of Sicily.




SOGNI - ITALIA PIETROBURGO

CORINTHIA HOTEL ST.PETERSBURG
26th September – 6th October 2009

Let us imagine for a moment that we are not conscious of the iconic locations which are synonymous with Italy or St. Petersburg. And let ourselves fall into a dream – a dream in which there is no clear definition of precise locations but a reflection of two different worlds that can either be one or the other. A dream where there is no clear division between where Italy begins or Petersburg ends. An elegy, for these two close yet diverse worlds.

The photographic exhibition comprising a collection of images of Venice and St. Petersburg by photographer Ken Scicluna will have its official launching on Saturday 26th September at 17:00 at Corinthia Hotel St.Petersburg and will be running up to 6th October.

THE EVENT IS BEING ORGANISED AS PART OF THE EVENTS BY THE COUNCIL OF EUROPE FOR THE EUROPEAN DAY OF LANGUAGES IN COLLABORATION WITH CORINTHIA HOTEL ST.PETERSBURG, FULCRUM IMAGES, THE MALTESE EMBASSY FOR RUSSIA, THE MALTA COUNCIL FOR CULTURE AND THE ARTS, THE ITALIAN CULTURAL INSTITUTE, ST.PETERSBURG THE ST.PETERSBURG TIMES & THE JUST CAUSES FUND



ANIMA DI PIETROBURGO

Photographic Exhibition at The Loggia, National Museum of Fine Arts, Valletta, Malta

To be officially inaugurated on the 18th of July 2008 running up to 17th August by Dennis Vella, Curator of Modern and Contemporary Art, Heritage Malta


Temperatures touching -36 degrees celcius, a soft, thin blanket of snow covering the city’s architectural pattern… a ray of light cutting through the massive, yet placid colourful buildings reflected onto the water in the canal… a rainy day on which contrasting colours become more evident…

Ken Scicluna captivated by the city of the Tsars in his solitary walks into its passegeways, streets and canals let himself be inspired by the spirit of great souls who dwelled - Puskhin, Dostoevsky, Chaliapin, Ahmatova, Repin, Mussorgsky, Sokurov and the rest.

This is St. Petersburg as seen through Ken’s lens; Petersburg the city of all seasons; in which all leave its mark accentuated by contrasts – Spring, when the colourful foliage transforms the city into a magical atmosphere of light and colours; the rather dull but captivating spirit of Autumn with rainy days mirroring reflections, the chilling yet magical blanket of snow brought about in Winter and Summer with its endless nights of fascinating light.


TWO ISLANDS, TWO CONTINENTS, ONE JOURNEY

- SAKHALIN TO MALTA -

An exhibition opened by the director of the Russian Centre for Science and Culture Sergei Medvedev on the 10th of June 2008.

The images are selected to represent the main cities and regions across the journey giving an overview of Ken’s latest solo photographic expedition comprising the crossing of Russia and Europe overland - highlights include, Sakhalin, Vladivostok, Habarovsk, Irkutsk, Lake Baikal, Moscow, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Tallin, Brussels, Antwerp, Namur, Cote D’Azur, Venice, Rome, Sicily and Malta.

After visiting the Roman Mausolea and ruins at Ghirza, a small region dispersed in the Bani Walid Desert and waiting to shoot the spectacular sunset with the ruins in the foreground, my driver lost his track in the sand on our way back in pitch darkness. Thus, after some hour driving without getting anywhere I was fortunate to notice the only speck of light visible in that immense and eerie desert. Surprisingly, it happened to be a group of locals camping in the desert. Gamal, Mahmoud and Hasan not only showed us the way but invited us to dine with them in the middle of that remote desert. They were born in these regions and live between the desert and working occasionally in Tripoli. They were surprised that anyone from Europe knew about and decided to visit such an arid place. Their hospitality was unmatched and they proved to be some of the best travel acquaintances I met during my whole visit in Libya.

Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk, Sakhalin Island, the Russian far East on the way to Vladivostok

Excerpt: (from recorded memoirs)

Day 1 – 24th December 18:30

Today I’m leaving the island of Sakhalin after an interesting stay here. I wonder how it is in Europe as there’s not even a speck it’s Christmas eve. At the airport I met three young Russian men who were working in some oil fields in Nogliki on the North of the Island. Whilst waiting for the delayed plane amongst scattered luggage in the small and slightly claustrophobic airport I began discussing photography (in Russian of course) with Alexei, who happens to be an engineer with a passion for photography. He switched on his laptop and showed me images he shot of Kamchatka, which I’m dreaming to visit, yet couldn’t because of the heavy snow, besides it being a bit out of my way. He saw my eyes glitter with excitement and inspired me further to visit. “I Should”, I replied, “In fact I’m dreaming about it”. Images on a calendar I saw at ‘Rossiskaya Gazeta’ with whom I collaborated for a while had made me dream of hovering over.

Alexei gave me his number and that of his wife Natalia and in a typical Russian manner invited to host me in case I should visit sometime – Russians are great people and their hospitality is unmatched, especially here in the East. The trick is being able to communicate in Russian, apart of course from being a foreign Westerner, thus a rarity in these remote parts of the world…….